The Fall of Anarion
by Elros Tar-Minyatur
Summary: A story of the last days of Lord Anarion of Gondor's life and of his fall before the Barad-dur.
1. Chapter I

I don't own the Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkien's works.  
  
The Plateau of Gorgoroth was not, by any means, a pleasant place to be. The darkness there was eternal, and it was dry, oh so very dry. The very air seemed to suck the moisture from a man's body.  
And there was dust. There was always dust, swirling in twisting little devils of air incessantly. It was everywhere, in the tents, in the clothing and even in the food and drink. No, Gorgoroth was a place that any man that kept some semblance of wit would avoid at any cost.  
Yet, Anárion was there, and he deemed that he kept a great deal of wit about him. He had to have, to survive in these desolate, orc-infested plains for six years. He wiped a hand across his brow as he looked up at the looming pinnacle of the Barad-dûr, the fortress of the Dark One, Sauron the Deceiver.  
The grand view of its black turrets and crested summit filled Anárion's heart with doubt. The Barad-dûr looked unassailable, and it had proved to be such in the past six years of toilsome siege, in which the only thing gained was more corpses. How, with the weariness of six years upon their hearts and bodies, could the leaders of the Last Alliance possibly hope to overcome the awesome might of Mordor?  
As if he could read Anárion's thoughts, Isildur came up and stood beside him, sweat pouring down his unshaven face. He gazed with him at the dark tower looming far above their heads.  
"I grow weary of these plains," said Anárion softly, "And I grow wearier still of this hopeless siege. Ever our numbers decrease while His are replenished by new creatures, foul and terrible. We might do well to quit the field of battle, for against His power I can foresee no victory. No victory for the Free Peoples while He still wields His Ring."  
Isildur considered these words silently, mulling them over in his mind. After a moment he looked down upon his brother's pinched face,  
"He is not invincible. Do not forget that he is but the servant of a greater evil, and the valor of elves and men brought that evil low an age past. His fortress may be stalwart, but Angband and Thangorodrim were mightier. His servants may be fell, but his master's were greater." He clapped a hand on Anárion's armor-clad shoulder and spun him so that their faces were mere inches apart,  
"And forget not brother that the blood of the Edain runs in our veins, and we have dwelt in Nùmenor, fairest of the lands beyond Valinor. Forget not that we too are a fell people, far more dangerous than any orc or thrall. We are of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur, who was born of Eärendil and Elwing. We will vanquish Sauron, as our fathers of old vanquished the Nameless One to the void. We will not fail."  
Anárion looked up into his brother's face, and for a moment each stared into the other's eyes. In Anárion, Isildur saw a heavy shadow of fear and doubt, and this frightened him greatly. He would not have his brother lose faith, and be broken in mind. He nodded his head down so their foreheads met.  
They stood like this for several moments, and then Isildur threw an arm around his brother's shoulders and smiled.  
"Come," he said, "You have stood within view of this foul tower too long. You are weary, and need rest. Let us take what refreshment as possible and go rest before the council."  
"Council?"  
Isildur smiled genuinely this time, "You must be more weary than I had guessed brother! Our Father and Gil-galad have called a council of the captains, I thought you had heard."  
Anárion laughed, "Alas!"  
Isildur laughed as well, "Yes, alas that your memory seems to wane brother!"  
Anárion grinned impishly, "Nay! Alas that you reminded me; I was hoping to escape this time!" He then grew serious once more, "What is it this time? Another plan to attack the Barad-dûr I guess."  
Isildur nodded, "You guess correctly brother. Elrond Peredhil believes that he has located the weak link in Sauron's chain." He looked about him, as if to see if anyone was about, "I will speak no more of it here. Sauron has watchers all about, and some have sharper ears than others."  
Anárion nodded in agreement, and as one they turned their back upon the dark tower, walking towards the dust caked group of tents, where banners of famed houses flapped in the hot wind that blew up from Orodruin.  
  
The pair stumbled over the loose stones and dust drifts that made up the floor of this desolate land. Even the small physical exertion dried Anárion's mouth and left a bitter tang on his tongue as he breathed heavily in the sweltering heat. He tugged at the metal collar of his silver chest plate in an effort to let out some of the heat, but to no avail. He was sweating profusely as he came up to the two men on guard, who looked as uncomfortable as he in their chain-mail, but neither dared to cast off their armor while within sight of the Barad-dûr. They snapped to attention as their lords passed, spears held straight as great fir trees, shields held close to their chests. Their winged helms glinted dully in what small light there was.  
He nodded to them, and passed through into the sprawling camp. After some minutes of walking through its ordered pathways, he came to a great tent that he and Isildur shared. Pushing aside its flap, he went through.  
Anárion cast off his mail-plate and helm, and unbuckled his sword belt. Clad now in a loose-fitting tunic and pants of black, he turned to his cot and rummaged through a chest of small treasures he still kept.  
Isildur removed his helm, but left his mail-plate on. He laid down on his cot and closed his eyes, dreaming of fair Minas Ithil as it had been before Sauron's return. He often dwelt on the past these days. He thought of his home in Nùmenor, the hills and fields through which he roamed, the steel-gray sea that he loved so much. His thought then turned to fair Ithilien, his city Minas Ithil, his dwelling in Annúminas beside the shores of Lake Neunial, the greatness of the towers of Amon Sûl and Orthnac, the White Tree in its court in Minas Anor.  
The White Tree. At times it pained him to look at, remembering the steep price he had paid for the delivery of that sapling. He pressed his eyelids more tightly shut. He could still hear the screams of the guards, could still feel the cold bite of their swords, could still see the rage in their eyes.  
He turned on his side. Clear in his memory was his flight from Nùmenor; the raging seas that had tossed him about like a leaf in the wind and the blinding fear that Ulmo would drown them as punishment for the deeds of their fellows. He remembered also the look of hopelessness and sadness upon his father's face as he stood on his flagship and watched as Amandil's ship dwindled into the west. That was worst in Isildur's mind, to see his father in despair.  
He was pulled from his reverie by Anárion's hand upon his shoulder. He turned to his brother, who knelt by the side of the cot. He offered a leather flagon to Isildur, who took it gratefully. He swallowed a long draught from it; it was a sweet elven wine, and it brought life back to Isildur's tired limbs. He passed the flagon back to Anárion, and wiped his mouth clear of stray dribbles of wine. He smiled as Anárion took a long swig from it.  
"Where did you get this?" Isildur asked.  
Anárion shrugged, "I have found that it is always best to keep a few hidden dainties in one's gear." He passed the bottle back to Isildur and smiled, "This is one of them."  
Isildur smiled and took another draught from the flagon. He sat up and clapped Anárion on the shoulder.  
"You had better get some rest before we go to the council." Isildur said as Anárion stood, "I think that there will be much debate, and you will need all your wits about you."  
Anárion nodded and walked over to his cot. Without covering up, he fell onto the cot and into a deep sleep. Isildur smiled down on him, thinking of when Anárion was a small child, and how he had come to watch their father sing him to sleep. He leaned over to his small stack of possession and pulled out a small harp.  
He played it softly as he sang in his deep baritone voice, made scratchy by the dryness of his throat. Not even elven wine could completely nullify the affects of Mordor's dry air.  
He found himself singing from the Lay of Leithian, from the point where his forefather Beren had stumbled upon Lúthien dancing amidst the trees of Doriath.  
"A night there was when winter died;  
then all alone she sang and cried  
and danced until the dawn of spring,  
and chanted some wild magic thing  
that stirred him, till it sudden broke  
the bonds that held him, and he woke  
to madness sweet and brave despair.  
He flung his arms to the night air,  
and out he danced unheeding, fleet,  
enchanted, with enchanted feet.  
He sped towards the hillock green,  
The lissom limbs, the dancing sheen;  
he leapt upon the grassy hill  
his arms with loveliness to fill:  
his arms were empty, and she fled;  
away, away her white feet sped.  
But as she went he swiftly came  
and called her with the tender name  
of nightingales in elvish tongue,  
that all the woods now sudden rung:  
'Tinúviel! Tinúviel!'  
And clear his voice was as a bell;  
its echoes wove a binding spell:  
'Tinúviel! Tinúviel!'  
His voice such love and longing filled  
one moment stood she, fear was stilled;  
one moment only; like a flame  
he leaped towards her as she stayed,  
and caught and kissed that elven maid.  
  
As love there woke in sweet surprise  
the starlight trembled in her eyes.  
A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien!  
more fair than any child of Men;  
O! Loveliest maid of Elfinesse ,  
what madness does thee now possess!  
A! lissom limbs and shadowy hair  
and chaplet of white snowdrops there;  
O! starry diadem and white  
pale hands beneath the pale moonlight!  
She left his arms and slipped away  
just at the breaking of the day."  
  
Isildur trailed off into silence, still plucking at the small harp. Anárion smiled in his sleep; his thoughts bringing him back to Nùmenor when he was a boy. Isildur gazed in wonder upon him, for not since the Minas Ithil had fallen had he seen his brother sleep as serenely as he did now.  
He set the harp aside and laid himself down upon the narrow cot. Gazing up at the ceiling he quickly fell asleep from weariness. Anárion sat up suddenly, and he pondered the song, thinking of the great deeds wrought by Beren and Lúthien, against a greater enemy than the one he faced now. Perhaps he would have a part in bringing down Sauron, or perhaps, like many in the Lay of Leithian, he would fall, and ne'er again walk the face of this Middle-earth. Still pondering this, he lay down and drifted into sleep.  
  
Anárion was roused from his slumber barely an hour later by a Nùmenorian warrior, dressed in full battle array. He rolled off his cot, stretched, and began to dress himself in his armor. The soldier gently shook Isildur, who groggily sat up, and he blinked like an owl in broad daylight.  
"What is the hour?" he asked in a voice laden with sleep.  
"It is near high noon," the soldier replied, "And your father awaits your presence at the council of the captains."  
With that, the soldier ducked outside the tent flap, leaving the brothers alone in their tent. Isildur yawned, took his helm from where he had left it upon the floor and put it on. Anárion finished with his armor, and he buckled his sword-belt back around his waist. His helm he tucked under his arm. The two strode out into the hot air of Gorgoroth.  
Another windstorm had blown up, and the banners flapped wildly in the near-gale. It would have been welcome as a relief from the heat, but the wind itself blew up from Orodruin, and it was every bit as hot as the air. And it brought with it new dust-devils of foul earth and ash. Anárion could taste the bitterness of Mordor's earth even when breathing through his nose; the taste seemed to permeate everything.  
They kept their heads bent against the heavy winds as they walked through the ordered streets. Everywhere they went, men bowed to them, sons of the King. It always made Anárion uncomfortable to be bowed to on the field of battle. He did not understand why, as he was perfectly fine with the custom when he sat upon his throne in Minas Anor. He shook the matter from his mind; it was best to focus on the subject at hand.  
With a final turn, they came to the largest tent that housed the elven king Gil-galad. At the entrance stood two of the Noldor, golden armor caked with dust and grime. Planted to either side of the flap were the banners of Gil-galad, un-changed since his father Fingon bore them to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad an age before.  
The elves bowed as they passed through, into a crowded tent with many maps and weapons scattered about. In the center, there was a long table and at one end sat Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, and at the other sat their father, Elendil the Tall, High King of the Realms in Exile. Anárion and Isildur bowed low, first to Gil-galad, then to their father.  
Gil-galad nodded in return and gestured that they should take seats. The two sat on either side of the table, both next to their father and across from each other. On either side of Gil-galad sat Elrond Peredhil and Círdan the Shipwright. Also in attendance were Thranduil of Greenwood, Glorfindel of Imladris, several Nùmenorian captains, several elven captains, and one grizzled dwarf called Nalí Bloodtooth, who commanded the few dwarves that had come to the aid of the Last Alliance from their halls in Khazad-dûm.  
When all was quiet, Elrond Peredhil stood from his seat at the Elven King's left hand. In his hand, he held a large rolled up scroll of paper. He unfurled the scroll onto the table in such a way that all, including Elendil, could see the scale drawing of the Barad-dûr. He pointed to a shallow gully on the northern edge of the map,  
"This gully, which was recently discovered by our scouts," he said, "comes directly up to the north face of the Barad-dûr, and it offers sufficient cover to move a large force to the rear-gate of the tower." He paused, "Provided that there are no watchers upon the upper levels."  
As usual, Elrond wasted no words. The others were silent for a moment as they mulled over this new information and what it meant to the strategy. After a moment, Isildur spoke,  
"And if there are watchers upon the upper levels, the plan is folly. Our force will be set upon and there will be a battle that neither side will win," he looked pointedly at Elrond, "We cannot afford to have another failed assault. This next one must be the end of the Dark One and His tower, or it must not come at all."  
"We have sat idle long enough," said Glorfindel, "The enemy regains his strength, while ours merely decreases. We must strike hard, and strike soon."  
"And if we fail in this attack, what then?" asked Círdan, "His forces may serve to weaken ours so severely that he may break our leaguer and ravage our lands at our back."  
"I tell you that the key to this attack is the gully!" Elrond said.  
"You cannot guarantee that there will be no watchers!" shouted Isildur, "It would be folly to assume that the Dark One knows not of this gully! These are his lands, and he has long scouted them out."  
Thranduil stood, "If we wait but a few weeks, new strength is arriving from Greenwood, and from Lothlórien. We may then have enough to destroy Sauron's tower utterly."  
All flinched at the mention of His name. Elendil stood,  
"Nay, Glorfindel speaks truly. We must strike hard, and strike quickly. Our scouts report that Sauron is building up His forces, they are coming daily up from the lands beyond Mordor, where the Black Nùmenorians take hold over the swarthy men. I have seen in the palantír His plans, He will attack soon. We must attack first."  
The High King of the Realms in Exile slammed his fist down on the table, "If we move quickly we may yet have time to counter His actions."  
"But Father, to counter Him, we must rely upon this unreliable plan of attack that Lord Peredhil has laid before us," Isildur said hotly.  
"And even if this did work," called an elven captain from down the table, "It would not be the final victory. He takes refuge in Orodruin, trusting his servants the Nazgûl to hold the Barad-dûr."  
"It is our best course of action," said Elrond, "And the only one that has yet presented itself. We must risk discovery, in hopes that we might defeat the mightier of his two fortresses."  
A Nùmenorian captain down the table called out, "Can we be assured that if he discovers us, he will not pour his strength out the front gates, and come sweeping down upon the sick and injured in this camp, and then go on to pillage Gondor and the lands behind?"  
"Do not believe I have not prepared for such an opportunity," said Anárion sternly, speaking for the first time, "I did not leave all my fortresses unguarded when I marched to the pass of Cirith Gorgor."  
The other nodded and backed down. Elrond cleared his throat,  
"Unless any man or elf should come up with a better plan, my choice lies with the plan I have fashioned."  
"Perhaps we should have a small force go down it, to test the water, so to speak," suggested Nalí Bloodtooth.  
Isildur shook his head with disdain, "Nay, if He is not already aware of this avenue of attack, a feint will merely alert Him to our plans."  
"Our plans?" Elrond said incredulously, "You mean to say that you are accepting the plan?"  
"Nay, I did not say that," replied Isildur, "And I will not go along with it, unless the vote of the whole council is against me." He sat down.  
Nalí snorted, "I say that Lord Peredhil's plan suits our needs best. The vote of the dwarves is with him."  
"Such small comfort as it is," muttered Thranduil under his breath.  
Nalí rose from his seat and raised his axe high above his head with one hand, and the other he pointed at Thranduil, "Master elf, I did not come to war to cleave elf-necks, but I swear this, if you should so blatantly insult my people again, my axe will cleave one!"  
"Is that so dwarf?" shouted Thranduil, "I might have been frightened if your axe could reach so high as to cleave my neck. I think that if you can draw near enough, you will have to settle for my legs!"  
"Baruk Khazad!" screamed Nalí, jumping at Thranduil, who swiftly drew his long knife.  
Anárion leapt to restrain Nalí, while Glorfindel wrenched the knife from Thranduil's fingers. The two struggled, but their larger captors kept a hold on them.  
"And so we see our enemy's greatest asset: His power to sow hatred within the ranks of our people. Nalí, Thranduil, stay this madness!"  
All heads jerked about to gaze at Gil-galad, who had spoken. Nalí and Thranduil ceased to struggle, such was the power of the King's voice. Gil-galad stood, and pushed the dark hair from his eyes.  
"While this debate has raged, I have considered our courses of action. While Lord Peredhil's suggestion," he gestured towards Elrond, who bowed, "Has merit, the points of Isildur cannot be ignored. Sauron's watchers may very well espy our armies and endeavor to break our leaguer about his fortresses. However, this is one of the many risks that must be taken in war, and I say that we should try this thing."  
With that, the High King of the Noldor sat back upon his chair. There was silence amongst the members of the council. After a moment, Isildur spoke,  
"Alas! you do me grievous hurt, my Lord, but I shall hold to my oath to vote against this plan until the entire vote of the council is against me. I say nay!"  
And Isildur returned to his seat. The rest were silent, mulling the prospect over in their minds. Anárion, after a few minutes of thinking, spoke thusly:  
"If there was some way to distract the Dark One's watchers, I would suggest that we do such."  
Glorfindel nodded at this new council, "A small, well-armed force of our mightiest warriors may be able to distract the enemy at the front gates, while the rest of our army moves in to attack the back."  
Gil-galad smiled at Anárion and nodded, "This is a good plan, and I believe it will break the Barad-dûr. My vote lies with Glorfindel and Anárion's plan."  
"A vote then," said Elrond, "My vote lies with Glorfindel and Anárion also."  
Elendil nodded, "Who am I to refuse my own son's plan? My vote lies with them as well."  
Nalí Bloodtooth shouted quickly, "And the axes of the Dwarves are with the Elf Lord and Nùmenorian Prince!"  
Thranduil frowned at the dwarf, who had shouted just as Thranduil opened his mouth to speak. He said through clenched teeth, "I vote with Glorfindel and Anárion."  
Círdan the Shipwright frowned. He was a peaceful elf, and his current attitude gave no credit to the great deeds he had done in ages past in the defense of Brithombar and Eglarest upon the shores of the sea. After a long moment, he nodded, "I believe that this is the best course of action, and I will not hinder it."  
The Captains of Nùmenor stood as one and cast their vote with their king. The Elven Captains did the same. At last only Isildur had not voted. He stood slowly, as though it pained him. He looked gravely at Anárion.  
"We Men of Nùmenor are men of our word. I said I would not vote for this unless the whole of the council was against me. And it is. I vote with my brother and Glorfindel, though my heart warns against it." Isildur returned to his seat and rubbed his nose-bone between fore-finger and thumb.  
Gil-galad smiled grimly, "Then I declare this council finished. Elendil and I will put together the plan of battle, and who will go with the diverting party."  
"I will go," said Glorfindel quickly, "Only he who is faithless will not carry through on his own plan."  
"Then I will go as well," said Anárion, "As will the men of my household."  
"The axes of the Dwarves go with you as well!" said Nalí Bloodtooth hefting his axe above his head."  
"More comrades will we choose later," said Elendil, "Go now and take what rest you can."  
As one, all those who were seated rose and bowed to first Gil-galad and then Elendil. They filed out slowly, and Anárion, last to leave, was held by his father.  
"My son," he started slowly, "You are a man now, and a noble one at that. Are you committed to this? I would not have my son risk his life needlessly."  
Anárion nodded slowly, "I would not have it otherwise father. I go for not only our people, but for all the peoples of the west, so that good may still flourish outside the Blessed Realm."  
Elendil brought his forehead to that of his son's and for a long moment they stood there, silent. At last Elendil released him,  
"Go with my blessing Anárion. May Ulmo protect you."  
"Thank you father," Anárion said solemnly, and walked from the tent.  
  
Once outside the tent, Anárion was waylaid by his brother. He stepped from behind a tent, and pulled his brother back into the alley. Isildur gripped him by the shoulders and said,  
"Anárion, I fear for you. I fear that the Dark One will see through this deception, and you will be slain with Glorfindel and the Men of your House. And it will all be in vain as well."  
"Do not think that your concern is unappreciated, brother, but I must do this. My honor demands it."  
"To Udûn with your honor! I would have you live through this war, so that we may dwell again on opposite sides of the River Anduin, and ride to each other's cities ever and anon once more! Do not go! I beg it of you, as a boon for me."  
Anárion shook his head and cast his brother's hands from his shoulders, "I would go, even if honor did not dictate it." He looked meaningfully into his brother's eyes, "For too long I have sat idle, for too long I have watched brave men fall and have been unable to do anything, for too long I have raged against the nameless menace the haunts us. I will not be idle any longer!"  
Isildur lowered his head, "Then I fear that you shall never see Minas Anor again my brother." He rested his forehead against Anárion's for a few long moments. He wrapped his arms around Anárion in a loving embrace, and Anárion returned it.  
When they separated, Isildur wiped tears from his eyes, "Farewell brother, and may the grace of the Valar protect you." And with that, Isildur turned and left, leaving his brother standing in the growing darkness. 


	2. Chapter II

Anárion rose drowsily from his cot the next morning. Isildur was gone. He shook his head in regret for all the things he had said the previous night. He did not want his brother to be estranged from him, after they had been through so much.  
He stretched lazily and began to dress. First came his loose black tunic, then the mail-plate that covered his chest and stomach, the plates that covered his shoulders and thighs, his knees and upper arms, his knees and elbows, and finally this shins and lower arms. He then pulled onto his hands tough leather gloves, and to his shoulders he fastened a long black cloak. On his head he put his helm, with wings like those of great seabirds. Lastly he buckled on his sword-belt, and picked up his shield.  
Anárion did not know why he had chosen to dress in full battle gear. Normally, he would have worn the chest plate and the helm, and that would have been sufficient. Anything more would have caused him to become incredibly uncomfortable. But this morning, he was taken by a feeling that he needed to be ready to give battle.  
Stepping outside carefully, he found that it was as close to a sun- lit day as Mordor ever got. There was some light, and the cloud-cover of Sauron seemed to be breaking. There was no wind, the dust lay in drifts all about the camp. The air seemed cooler that was normal. All about him, Men and Elves whispered that the darkness of Sauron was fading, and He was not so far from defeat as they all thought. Morale rose everywhere, especially among the Men of Nùmenor, who cheered as Anárion walked past. He was glad to have raised their spirits, even though he did little more than walk past in his silver armor and hold his head high.  
At mid-morning he found Isildur breaking his fast on stale bread and tainted water. His brother nodded to him, but otherwise made no acknowledgement that he had noticed Anárion at all. Anárion sat down beside him for some time, until Isildur rose from his seat and looked down at Anárion.  
"I apologize for besmirching your honor yester eve brother," he said stiffly, "It is not my place to decide your actions."  
Anárion stood as well and he clapped his hand on his brother's shoulder, "Think nothing of it. I am sorry if my words hurt you, but you were only doing your duty as a brother."  
Isildur nodded, "I am glad there is no enmity between us; it would have weighed heavy upon my heart to go into battle without my brother's love." He stretched luxuriously, "I have also made up my mind to go with the diverting force."  
Anárion smiled, "Now there is truly hope of victory! With you upon my right and Glorfindel upon my left, who will stand before us."  
Isildur did not share his brother's mirth, "Sauron, if he should show himself. Possibly the Lord of the Nazgûl, if he commands the battle himself."  
"Do not dwell on these possibilities," said Anárion, his smile gone, "For that is what they are, merely chances, shadows of things that may be."  
Isildur smiled then, but it was without mirth, "It seems our attitudes have been exchanged."  
Anárion nodded, "Yes, you were so sure of victory yesterday at dawn, and I was filled with doubt. Now. . ." he shrugged.  
Isildur shook his head, "I do not know what has come over me, but this feeling came upon me; a strangling feeling I have not felt since I stole the sapling from the temple and the guards fell upon me. It was like seeing Nùmenor fall again."  
"What could have caused it other than the will of Sauron? He may have bent his thought upon you, the man who has done ill to many of his designs. Did you have evil dreams?"  
Isildur nodded, "They came to me as all things wrought by Sauron come, suddenly and violently. I remember nothing but black fear, threatening to drown me, like the sea on the eve of our escape from Ar- Pharazôn."  
Anárion shuddered at the memory, and endeavored to change the subject, "What of this light? What do you think of it?"  
Isildur looked up at the sky, where patches of blue were now clearly visible, "I do not like it. It reminds me too much of all of Sauron's secret designs; it has come quickly and without explanation or reason. This may be some new scheme to lure us into a trap."  
Anárion nodded, "If it is indeed a trap, we must walk into it open- eyed, and hope to catch Him off guard," he turned to look at some of his men basking in the sunlight that they had not seen for nearly six years. Nodding towards them, he said, "But we may still keep some hope that His darkness is truly breaking and this war is near an end."  
"Do not allow yourself to be blinded by your hope," said Isildur quickly, "Not for naught is Sauron called the Deceiver, and when He has a hand in events, they are not as they seem."  
"You speak truthfully brother, but I will not let hope blind me. Nay, I will keep this hope to stay sane and living."  
Isildur clapped his brother on the shoulder, "Then hope on, brother."  
  
"I like it not," said Gil-galad, "It seems to good to be true that His darkness breaks at the time we decide to launch another assault."  
"Knowing Sauron, it probably isn't true," said Elendil, and bitterness was clear in his voice.  
"But will we continue are plan?" asked Elrond, "If we attack ere the sun sets, we may catch his orcs in a hard place."  
Gil-galad looked over at Elrond, standing over his maps and scouting reports, "That is the main reason this disturbs me; he puts the orcs, the staple of his army, at a severe disadvantage by allowing the sun to come through."  
"Maybe his power truly fades?" suggested Nalí.  
"That may be," said Gil-galad, "But I am loathe to place trust in He who wraps himself in falsehoods."  
"I think we should wait for reinforcements to arrive from Greenwood and Lothlórien before we launch this assault," said Thranduil, "And also we should have Anárion summon up his reserves."  
"That could be playing into Sauron's hands," said Elendil, "To make us so suspicious of His motives that we make a terrible blunder. By no means do we close off all passage into the west with our presence," he leaned forward until his face was inches from Thranduil's, "With Sauron, you must understand, there are wheels within wheels within wheels. A man may go mad attempting to second-guess Him."  
Gil-galad nodded his agreement, "Whatever the reason for this new turn of events, we must not waver from our plan."  
"Speaking of which," said Elrond, "We have yet to set a time for this attack."  
"I think it is best to keep the date unfixed," said Elendil, "Sauron has ears everywhere, and those ears have ways of hearing what is not meant to be heard. Keep the men ready."  
Thranduil nodded and ducked out of Gil-galad's tent. The High King returned to his planning, but Elendil gazed at nothing for a time, then walked outside to nap in the late morning sunshine: a luxury he had not allowed himself for ten years.  
  
Anárion stared at the dark tower of the Barad-dûr. It did not look so threatening in the sunlight, in fact, it looked no more threatening than the pinnacle of Orthnac, or so it seemed to him. He stretched on the ground, as much as his armor would allow. He stripped off his helm and set his arms behind his head.  
He turned to his brother and smiled, "Sunlight! I never thought my heart would be so glad to see such a simple thing!"  
Isildur frowned and did not answer. He seemed lost deep in thought to Anárion. He cocked his head towards Isildur,  
"You seem morose, brother."  
Isildur shook his head, "Nay, I am nervous. This seems wrong to me, and a shadow of threat grows upon my mind. And it is not helped by seeing how lax you have become. Lying in the sun like a lizard, within sight of the enemy's tower!"  
Anárion smiled, "You should be more at ease Isildur. Soak up the sunlight lest it be gone tomorrow."  
Isildur shook his head and returned to brooding. After some minutes, Anárion, deeply at ease, began to sing. His voice was husky and unlovely, but the sound of fair song in that foul land seemed sweeter than the warbling of any bird.  
He sang for some minutes, like his brother, from the Lay of Leithian. He reached a portion that touched near the subject at hand,  
"He chanted a song of wizardry,  
Of piercing, opening, of treachery,  
Revealing, uncovering, betraying.  
Then sudden Felagund there swaying,  
Sang in answer a song of staying,  
Resisting, battling against power,  
Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,  
And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;  
Of changing and of shifting shape,  
Of snares eluded, broken traps,  
The prison opening, the chain that snaps.  
  
Backwards and forwards swayed their song.  
Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong  
The chanting swelled, Felagund fought  
And all the magic and might he brought  
Of Elvenesse into his words.  
Softly in the gloom they heard the birds  
Singing afar in Nargothrond,  
The sighing of the sea beyond,  
Beyond the western world, on sand,  
On sand of pearls in Elvenland.  
  
Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing  
In Valinor, the red blood flowing  
Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew  
The Foamriders, and stealing drew  
Their white ships with their white sails  
From lamplit havens. The wind wails,  
The wolf howls. The ravens flee.  
The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea.  
The captives sad in Angband mourn.  
Thunder rumbles, the fires burn-  
And Finrod fell before the throne."  
Anárion trailed off, for the nameless terror in that song was Sauron himself, when he had been no more than Morgoth's great captain. Isildur shivered in the sunlight. Elves nearby stared at Anárion, with his unlovely voice and unlovely topic. Anárion laid back and closed his eyes. The morning wore on.  
  
At dusk, Anárion arose from the cot where he had spent most of the afternoon. It was barely the fifth hour from noon, and already the sun sank behind the mountains of Shadow. He stretched and yawned, almost like a cat.  
He gazed around in the lengthening shadows, discerning the shapes of elves and men. The return of darkness hurt him, and so he went back inside, and lit a candle from his small box of treasures. He sat on his cot and rummaged through that chest, noting every item, how and when he had received it, what purpose is served him, why he had it here.  
Coming to the leather flask of elven wine, he took a draught. Staring around into the gathering darkness, he suddenly realize why Isildur was afraid. The swirling seas, and the fires on the shore. Their father standing straight against the raging gale to stare at his father's ship until it disappeared on the horizon. He shivered at the memories, but none so much as the only time he had seen Sauron.  
The looming menace of his presence had only partially been concealed by his fair raiment, as he stood behind the throne of Ar-Pharazôn. And in that moment, Anárion had realized that the throne of Nùmenor had fallen under Sauron's will. The thought still terrified him.  
He stared into the gloom for an hour or more, mulling over the horrid memories from Nùmenor as it was under Sauron's command. He did not even notice Isildur come in and sit beside him until his brother gently shook him from his reverie.  
"What are your thoughts brother?" Isildur asked.  
Anárion shook his head, "I will not say. Dark have been my thoughts in hours past." He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, "They are gone now. But I have been thinking on Ar-Pharazôn and Sauron's power over him."  
"Those are indeed black memories," said Isildur, "But why do you dwell on them?"  
"There is a heavy menace about this place that not even an age of sunlight and greenery can wholly cure. I feel His will, showing to me the things my heart fears most."  
Isildur threw his arm about his brother's shoulders, "I understand your anguish, for I myself have been cast into the dark pits of despair that He delves for us, but I have returned. You must return as well. Dwell not on one subject to long, or He will turn it to your ill."  
Isildur stood and walked over to his own cot. He stared up at the ceiling and sighed, "I have long wanted to break free from these tents and wander once again in Ithilien. This place begins to eat away at a man's spirit."  
"Yes, very quickly."  
The two sat in silence for a long time. Isildur was on the verge of sleep when faint cries came from outside the tent. He sat up quickly and threw on his helm. Anárion did the same.  
"What is this devilry?" he cried.  
"I know not," Isildur replied, "But let us go meet it!"  
Outside they ran into a company of elves in full battle dress, shields and spears glinting dully in the moon-light. They joined themselves to the rear of the company and many Men of Nùmenor followed them.  
As they reached the perimeter of the camp, the faint cries became distinct. There were shouts of 'Elendil! Elendil!' and 'Avi-i-eldar!' and the unintelligible screeches of orcs. There were cries of anguish and of death and everywhere there was the clash of metal upon metal.  
"Come Anárion!" shouted Isildur, "Battle is joined! Elendil!"  
With that Isildur charged recklessly into battle, and Anárion and his company followed. Orcs had come up under the cover of darkness and had slain the outermost guards and had made it into the first row of tents before they were stopped. No doubt that the poor men and elves that inhabited those tents were dead, killed while they still slumbered.  
Orcs sprang up before Isildur, but many fled, for his wrath was terrible to see, and those that stayed were hewed down. In this way Isildur came to the beleaguered guards. He broke through the orc's ranks with a fury that surprised even Anárion.  
Anárion turned to his following and raised his sword above his head, "The enemy is upon us! Rise up! Rise up! Forth Nùmenor!"  
"Elendil! Elendil!" they cried, and sprang forth into the fray.  
  
Even as Anárion called the darkness of Sauron blanketed them again, its stifling blanket threatened to choke the hope out of all those under its shadow. It was now impossible to tell how many orcs had snuck in under the now-heavy cloud cover.  
A more evil fortune still: the coverings of Sauron struck fear into the hearts of men, and many found themselves unable to move. Some cried that they were blind, and others cast themselves down and beat the ground with their fists. Around Isildur and Anárion the Men of Nùmenor who still had some wits about them rallied, and lashed out at anything that came within reach of their long swords.  
The fight raged for long minutes, and all that could be heard were the clash of metal and the screams of the fallen. It was a near even contest. Had the Men of Nùmenor been able to add their prowess, the orcs would have been scattered like leaves in an autumn gale. Yet they were bested by Sauron's covering, thicker than it ever had been beforehand. The elves possessed the greater skill, but the orcs could pit three of their warriors against every elf.  
Things would have gone ill if not for the arrival of Thranduil and the archers of Mirkwood. Their keen eyes and stout hearts cut through the wrappings of Sauron and many orcs fell with white feathered arrows in their chests. The orcs wavered for a moment, and then retreated. All elves, both Noldor and Silvan, pursued them in the hotness of their wrath. Many orcs that lingered to give battle were cut down ere they had chance to raise their weapons.  
They pursued them across the bitter ashes of the no-man lands between the Barad-dûr and the light fortifications of the encampment. They were no more than two furlongs distant from the tower when the orcs turned about unexpectedly and lashed out. The lightly armored and lightly armed elves under the command of Thranduil suffered heavy losses, nearly fourscore fell in the first minutes of the fierce melee. But the heavily armored Noldor withstood the sudden onslaught and once again proceeded to hew down their enemies. Then the Lord of the Nazgûl revealed his plan, and hundreds of fierce Uruks and scores of wolf-riders poured from the gates of the Barad- dûr.  
The Noldor cried out in terror, and the Sylvan elves fled before this new onslaught. The Noldor held for a few moments, wavered, and then fled. They would have been overtaken and slain by the wolf riders if not for what happened next.  
  
Nalí Bloodtooth had brought his company to the edge of the camp, but when they arrived the elves had already charged after the retreating enemy. He made as though to follow them, but as he saw the plight of the Men of Nùmenor, he paused. He grudgingly conceded that at least one group that could see in this gloom should stay to guard the camp. For the dwarves could see and their hearts were not troubled, and to them this suffocating darkness was no worse than the deepest caves of Khazad-dûm.  
Yet when the cries of the elves became evident, Nalí threw caution to the winds and cried:  
"To me my kinsfolk! To our comrades! Baruk Khazad!"  
  
With a great shout the dwarves, less than five hundred strong, charged recklessly into the no-man land. The elves were a furlong distant and drawing closer quickly, and the wolf riders were now near on top of them, and the Uruks not far behind.  
In their panic and in the dark, the elves very nearly tripped over the dwarves. Not realizing that their friends had come to their aid, they attacked viciously and though no dwarves were killed, many were wounded. The dwarven lines parted and the elves ran through. The dwarves stood bewildered for a time, but then turned back to Mordor's armies.  
"Baruk Khazâd!" they shouted, "Khazâd ai-mênu!"  
And the orcs, though they outnumbered their foes ten to one, were halted with great slaughter. The elves returned after they heard the dwarven war-cries, and now Thranduil led his archers forward, and they let loose every arrow in their quivers. Hundreds of orcs fell stricken, but still their fellows came on. And up from the tower gates, six furlongs distant, came up new strength of orcs and trolls. Even the steadfast dwarves began to give ground, but their line would not be broken.  
At last, a group of trolls and Uruks burst through the dwarven lines and made for the archers that tormented them with their darts. Dozens of Elven archers were slain, and the chief troll knocked Thranduil to the ground, and stood above him, preparing to tear out his throat. Nalí Bloodtooth saw this, and he gave a blood-curdling scream,  
"Khazâd ai-mênu!"  
And he leapt to Thranduil's aid, slaying two trolls and driving the rest away in fear, so great was his fury. Others, dwarves and elves alike, rallied about their captains and fought off all who came before them.  
Thranduil was not grievously hurt, and he stood up. He began to thank Nalí, but the dwarf said gruffly, "Save pleasantries for afterwards, for whether you are injured or not, there is still a battle to be fought here."  
And that battle was being lost. Though the valor of both dwarf and elf was great, the great crush of Sauron's force began to slowly drive them back. The blood of dwarf, elf and orc fell into the ash of Mordor and evaporated. The warriors of the Last Alliance had been driven back up against their own barricades, and the Men of Nùmenor could give them no aid, for they were blind still.  
Then, when all hope had nearly faded, a brazen trumpet sounded from within the camp, and suddenly a great blue light sprang forth from just within the barricades.  
It was Gil-galad, and the light had come from the blades of the folk of his house. The blades were made in Gondolin, and were presented to Gil- galad's father, Fingon, before his death at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The orcs shied away from the light, for it pained them to look upon. The Men of Nùmenor, suddenly relieved of their blindness, and reinforced by more of their kindred coming late with a Captain named Ingold. They gave a great shout and leaped the barricade. The Uruks and Trolls wilted before their onslaught, so great was their wrath.  
Anárion himself slew the troll chieftain, and the rest fled in fear of him. Ingold made as if to pursue them, but he was stayed by Isildur.  
"Nay," the prince said, "We have but defeated a portion of His strength, and I do not doubt that if you came before His doors, He would unleash His hidden armies and you would fall."  
"Ah, you have touched upon a great point Isildur," said Gil-galad, coming up behind the pair, "Have we defeated his last strength? Or was this strike merely a ruse? Nay!" he cried, seeing Isildur ready to protest, "Speak no more of this matter here. Within sight of the Barad-dûr is his power greatest."  
Isildur snorted, "I begin to wonder if there is truly any place in this land where we can speak freely."  
"Not freely," said Anárion, "But Sauron's eyes can see happenings in other lands, even without a palantír. There is no place, save Imladris or Lothlorien where you could truly speak your mind without fear of the wrong ears overhearing."  
Isildur nodded, "But where shall we hold council? I fear this attack may be a show to convince of his weakness so that we should become overconfident and attack before our plans are ripe."  
"This may be true," agreed Gil-galad, and slipped off the thick leather glove on his right hand, revealing a ring, "We shall hold council in my tent, as before, but this time more caution shall be used."  
As the Elven King spoke, he fingered the silver ring set with a sapphire upon his hand. Though neither Anárion or Isildur said anything aloud, they recognized Vilya, the ring of Air. With that ring's power, their council would be kept secret. Gil-galad grinned slyly, and slipped his hand back into its glove.  
"Why had you not used Vilya before?" asked Elendil, who had come just then to the front, only to find that the battle was over.  
Gil-galad shook his head, "Alas, it was folly for me to assume that the Dark Lord was both blind and deaf, and I fear I may have done ill."  
Elendil clapped his hand on Gil-galad's shoulder, "Do not trouble yourself friend. Come," he gestured to the tents, "Let us take what rest we can."  
Gil-galad nodded and the pair walked back into the encampment. Isildur looked over at his brother, who was grinning wryly.  
"I think," said Anárion, "That they are growing senile in their age."  
Their laughter rang throughout that hollow land.  
  
Thranduil came up behind the dwarf, Nalí Bloodtooth, and cleared his throat. All within earshot turned about, and what they saw amazed them. Thranduil, King of Greenwood, kneeled before the dwarven captain and spoke thusly:  
"O Nalí Bloodtooth of the race of Durín, great is your strength in battle, and noble is your heart. There are grievances that lie between us concerning our races and I beg of you to pardon me. I spoke ill of your people, and my words have been proven wrong. I have been saved by your valor, and I beg of you to take from me anything that I can give. I withhold my life only."  
Nalí was taken aback by such humbleness from the proud elf, and he muttered softly, fading into silence. At length, he spoke,  
"Thranduil of the elves, I pardon all hurtful words that have passed from your lips concerning dwarves. I will take naught from you, but instead ask that you remember these words should ever another of the race of Durín, that you will treat him with the same dignity as you have treated me now."  
Thranduil stood, and looked about at the scattered elves and men in the fading light of the Noldor's blades and said in a great voice, "Let none here say that the dwarves are without fair speech, and let none say that they are uncourteous!" He turned back to Nalí, "Master Dwarf, I will do as you ask, and I swear by the Valar themselves that I will keep your vow."  
Nalí muttered something under his breath, and walked back into the encampment, searching for food and sleep.  
  
The next morning found the captains of the Last Alliance at council again. The darkness of Sauron had faded just as swiftly as it had come. In Gil-galad's tent, they debated their course of action freely, knowing that Vilya would prevent their words from reaching Sauron's ears.  
"It was a feint," Isildur insisted, "A deliberate attempt to make us believe He was weak enough to defeat. I remain convinced that He has much strength yet, tucked away in some black pit."  
"If it was a feint," asked Gildor Inglorion, an elven captain, "Then why did He release more forces to be destroyed? Either His wit wanes, or he seriously believed that he could defeat us with such a small force."  
"He almost did," said Anárion grimly, if not for the valiance of the guards, we would all have been slain as we slept."  
Thranduil nodded grimly, "And that proves that His wit does not wane either."  
"But what of Isildur's points?" asked Ingold, "For if His intent was to slay us all, then why did He not unleash all His forces from the beginning?"  
Elendil spoke after a moment of consideration, "That was not His objective I guess. I agree with my son when he says that this was a feint. We were far too careless with our words two days ago, and He might have heard us planning."  
"So what you are saying is that, if His soldiers had slain us while we slept, that would be all well and good, but His purpose was to lull us into a false sense of security?" asked Gildor, "I still cannot understand why He would do such a thing."  
"He did it because He knew there was small chance of slaying us all with such tactics, but with His knowledge of our plans, he could kill us all and win the war. If he could convince us to go through with them that is," said Elrond softly.  
"Did I not tell you that my heart bode ill of this course?" said Isildur, "This course of action is now useless. We must find some other way to evict His forces from the Barad-dûr."  
"And I still say that the key to this siege is this gully!" shouted Elrond.  
"The key to His victory, not ours!" retorted Isildur, "Why not order our armies to cast themselves into His pits, and save ourselves the trouble!"  
"Men!" spat Elrond, "Always they are the first to despair! There is no other way, and so, when minds fail, bodies must prevail!"  
Isildur leapt to his feet, and leveled his sword at Elrond, "Lord Peredhil, you who are only half-elven, forget not that your brother was a man, and that you are in part a man, and that, if not for the valor of men, you would not have come into being!"  
"Humph, two councils, and two conflicts," said Nalí, "Why do we struggle amongst ourselves? Elrond, Isildur, forget your differences for another time. We have a more important matter at hand than your petty squabbles, more borne from stress than from any real grievance."  
The two glared at each other a moment longer, but for the time being, they did forget their differences, but Isildur carried them in his heart, even until he stood over the Crack of Doom, and his chance to destroy the Ring. Gil-galad stood after a few moments,  
"Nalí speaks wisdom; we are all stressed and wearied beyond belief. Were it possible, I would council that we go to our own countries and take rest. But, since this is not possible, we must at least try not to kill each other over nothing."  
"It is not nothing," said Isildur, quietly, yet dangerously, "The fate of Middle-earth could hang in the balance!"  
"Stay your tongue Isildur," said Elendil quickly, "Lest you be drawn into another argument."  
Before Isildur could answer, Anárion spoke, "Returning to the matter at hand, what can we do, now that we are in agreement of the fact that Sauron has knowledge of our plans?"  
"I believe that the plan Glorfindel and Anárion came up with two days ago seems to be the best," said Gildor.  
"Yet Sauron has knowledge of it," said Glorfindel bitterly, "Or at least we guess He does."  
"Even if it is a mere guess," said Elendil, "We cannot risk it. It may be that the attack was the result of His playing a hunch, but with Sauron, nothing is as it seems."  
"Always must we second-guess ourselves," said Thranduil bitterly, "I grow weary of it. Oh, what wouldn't I give to meet His forces in open battle, rather than sit around questioning how much He knows!"  
"You are not alone in such a wish, Thranduil," said Nalí, "If it is possible, I council that we lure His forces out into the open plain, where we may crush them!"  
"Crush them?" said Círdan incredulously, "We have no clue as to how many orcs or men or trolls He has yet at His call! For all we know, He may possess the forces to crush us in open battle."  
"This I cannot believe," said Anárion, "For if He did have such numbers, would He not have slain us all before?"  
"Captains," said Gil-galad suddenly, "How many do you have at your command, and of what sort are they, and how many do you believe they could do battle with at one time?"  
"I have four and a half hundreds of dwarves, all in mithril mail. I wager that we could contend with some three thousands of orcs at once before we were overrun," said Nalí.  
"I have with me some six thousand archers," said Thranduil, "They are lightly armored, but their skill with a bow is unmatched, save by our kin the Galadhrim. I believe we could contend with six thousands in melee combat. More, if we started further away."  
"I have ten thousands, of all sorts, and heavily armored from Imladris," said Elrond, "We could contend with three times our number, for most are of the Noldor, and are well trained in the art of war."  
"My sons and I have some thirty-six thousands, all told," said Elendil, "We could contend also with three times our number."  
"And I have twelve thousands in Osgiliath, and in Minas Anor," said Anárion, "I will not summon them, however, for they are all that stands between the enemy at Minas Ithil and the west."  
Isildur glowered at the thought of his beloved city in the hands of the enemy, and then said, "My son Elendur, commands four thousands at the opposite end at the pass," he paused, "And there are the men who live in the mountains of Ered Nimras. They have sworn an oath to me, and I will summon them, if it is necessary. I estimate that they number three thousands."  
"And I myself command some four and twenty thousands of the Noldor and some Sindar," said Gil-galad, "And I deem that this is enough for the plan I have designed."  
All looked at him in wonder, and finally, Anárion spoke, "And what is this plan my Lord?"  
Gil-galad smiled, "We must assume that Sauron knows we mean to attack him from the postern gate, and that a smaller force means to distract him at the front gate."  
"Yes," said Isildur, becoming irritated, "We have been over all this before; if you have something new to add, add it."  
Elrond frowned severely at Isildur, but Gil-galad waved him off, "I have nothing new to add, but you do, Isildur, as does Anárion."  
Isildur stared inquisitively at Gil-galad, but Anárion nodded grimly.  
"Ah, you speak of the weapon. I feared that it would come to this. I had hoped that we might have kept it hid, and none would have ever known of it. Tis a shame, really, that such a weapon will be brought to light."  
Isildur's eyes opened wide, then narrowed, "If we are to use this weapon, this must truly be our last assault. Should Sauron learn of it, and learn the secrets of its construction, a great evil would be unleashed upon Middle-earth."  
"And if He does," said Gil-galad, "Then I shall be held to blame; your hands are clean." He glanced around at the others at the council, who were at this point staring inquisitively, and he smiled. "If you could bring the others to the same page Anárion?"  
The other nodded, and turned to the others, "Once we of Gondor learned of Sauron's return, we constructed, in secret, a weapon so powerful that it could bring low any fortress or any amount of troops. This weapon is a great bow, perhaps five times longer and a dozen times thicker than any currently in use, mounted on the end of a long, flat piece of wood, perhaps three times the height of a man. The string of this bow, which has been designed specially to accept the great pressures that will be put upon it, is woven of tough animal sinew and strands of iron, cleverly crafted by dwarves."  
"A-ha!" cried Nalí, "At last we learn the purpose for the strange order."  
"You do indeed," Anárion replied, then turned to the rest and continued, "In the center of the string is a great sack, large enough to cradle a boulder that it would take ten men to lift. The tension in this string is held back by a steel pin which is attached to a crank and a lever. When the lever is released, the boulder, or whatever load is placed in the sack, is sent flying at its target. Its maximum effective distance is a furlong, but," he paused in grim silence, "At a range of thirty feet, a large boulder can blow a hole through solid stone."  
"That is indeed a powerful weapon!" cried Elrond, "I can see why it has been kept hid! Should some thing of that sort should fall into his hands all the fortresses we possessed would be worthless!"  
"And it is a weapon that should be kept hid!" shouted Círdan, "Nothing with that sort of destructive power should be allowed to remain! Burn these machines, and speak no more of them."  
"Wait until you have heard my plan before you condemn it," said Gil- galad. The Elven King cleared his throat, and then launched into it, "We have not all shown our faces to Sauron at one time since we cast down the Morannon. He knows not our number, and this we can use against Him. I had already decided who would go with the diversionary force ere the attack came, and here are their numbers: Some five thousand Men of Nùmenor should Anárion lead; Nalí Bloodtooth should take all his company, and Elrond should divide his host in two, and give half to the command of Glorfindel." He paused for some moments, and then continued, "The original plan said that the rest of the host should bear down upon the rear gate, and so crush Sauron from behind. Here now is the new plan:  
Our entire host shall move in the grey light before dawn. In the assault upon the rear gate, Elendil and I shall each take nine thousands of our kindred. Elrond should bring the rest of his host, and all of the Galadhrim and the new forces from Greenwood shall come as well, for we shall have need of good archers in that battle. Those whom Elendil and I shall take will all be heavily armored, and for the most part shall be spearmen."  
"But you have left out the greater part of the host!" interrupted Thranduil.  
"And you have yet to say how these terrible weapons will fit in to this," said Círdan.  
"Peace!" cried Gil-galad, "Give me time! These are things that cannot be said all at once." After a moment, he continued, "The greater part of the host, some two and twenty thousands under Isildur and eleven thousands under Gildor, and also Thranduil's archers and the Galadhrim already here shall lie hidden with the machines until the signal is given that we in the rear force have been engaged."  
"And what will the signal be?" asked Isildur.  
"I shall have a herald blow a horn three times," said Gil-galad, "And when that signal is given, the main host shall leap from their hiding place and aide those at the front gate, and with the machines they will burst through the Barad-dûr's gates and so conquer it utterly."  
"And where shall the main host hide?" asked Isildur, "There is naught but ash and dust between here and the main gate, and we cannot cross its six furlongs before we will be espied and our plan discovered."  
"Ah, but that is where you are wrong Isildur," said Gildor, "If I remember rightly, there is a great ledge, behind which a host of our size may lie hid. It is a furlong yet from the gate, but one furlong is better than six."  
"And there you must hide until the signal is given," said Gil-galad to Isildur and Gildor, "And you must move quickly once it is given; everything hinges on it.  
Once you have reached the gate, you must set shields or guards about the machine-operators, for once the enemy discovers the power of these engines, He will surely attempt to destroy those who operate them.  
After you have broken through the gates, send the greater part of your host across the chasm's bridge, for that is where the enemy will make his stand. The rest of the host must be sent along the walls to the rear gate to disrupt the enemy archers. In the unlikely event that our host breaks through, we will come to aid you in your taking of the tower. The host will proceed to slay every enemy within the tower and the fortress, and when it has been cleansed, set the machines to raze it to the ground. We will then march on Orodruin, and the power of the three rings combined with the strength of our host will serve to defeat Sauron.  
And after we accomplish all this, we will re-take fair Minas Ithil, and the war will be ended. Do any here have questions?"  
Isildur stood, "I have heard that the commander of the Barad-dûr is the Lord of the Nazgûl, and I do not think that he will sit idle in his tower if we come barging through his gates. It is said also that no mortal weapons can harm him, but that the Nazgûl fear the three. I say that if Galadriel should come to this battle, she should come with our host, and that Círdan should come also."  
Gil-galad nodded, "I had not given thought to this. It shall be as you ask Isildur." He paused momentarily, "Should I come as well? The power of the three is greatest when they are used in accord."  
Anárion shook his head and answered before his brother could say 'yes', "Nay lord, if you do not lead your host, Sauron will know something is afoot. Instead give your ring to Elrond, and let him come with our host."  
Gil-galad nodded in agreement, "This plan seems good to me, but we must hear the voice of all. Are there any objections?"  
The Elven King stared about the room, and after a few moments it became apparent that none would say anything, he spoke again,  
"Then it is settled. We shall wait for the hosts of Lothlorien and Greenwood, and three days after their arrival, the attack upon the Barad- dûr shall commence!"  
A cheer rose from all in attendance, and Gil-galad left the tent silently. One by one they filtered out of the tent, and went back to their own to rest in the fading light of the afternoon.  
  
Even though it seemed peaceful in the camp, there was much tension underneath the surface. All were, in their own way, mentally preparing for what an assault on the Barad-dûr would mean, and what horrors might await them there.  
Anárion slept fitfully, for his dreams were full of terrible things. He saw again the fall of Nùmenor and the sack of Ithilien. He saw things he had never seen before: the last stand of the men of Dor-Lomìn, the fall of Fingolfin, and Fingon after him, the horror of Morgoth's greatness. And worst of all, he saw in his mind a vision of his own death, bound and gagged, before the throne of the Dark Lord. 


	3. Chapter III

Dawn breaking over Mordor was a very unusual sight. Not unusual in its own appearance, but unusual in the effect it had over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. To Anárion it seemed as though he was at sea once again, and was merely watching the dawn break over the dark grey water. The thought brought him a little peace of mind for a time; the idea that he was young and innocent once again, going out on another adventure.  
He was not, however, merely sitting at ease and watching the dawn. He turned to his left, and saw the haunted pass of Cirith Gorgor. It was still empty.  
Anárion turned back to his fire. It was fed with dry moss and small, stunted shrubs that he had scavenged from the barren hills of the Morgai. He leaned closer to it, and prodded it up again with the end of a spear, urging the flames to take hold once more in what meager fuel he fed them with.  
Ingold came trudging up to Anárion's position at the top of a large and steep hill that overlooked both Gorgoroth and Udûn with the foul path Cirith Gorgor. Anárion jumped at the sudden noise of his approach, but beckoned him forward. Panting for breath, the man stopped and looked over at Gorgoroth.  
"It almost looks fair in this light," he said, still short of breath, "And I would call it such, if not for my knowledge of what foul deeds have come to pass here."  
Anárion stood and walked over to his captain. They stood together for a few moments in silence, looking out over the plains.  
"Nothing was evil to begin with, Ingold," Anárion said, "Mordor is no exception. Even though it has been the enemy's home for many years, even He cannot truly turn a land away from its roots. He can corrupt it, but always corruption can be healed."  
"I think that here it will take many long ages," said Ingold.  
Anárion nodded, "It will. And it may hold some of its current master's malice until the unmaking of the world, but I do not think it will be so." He turned to Ingold and smiled, "We will not live to see it, nor will our descendants for many years, but I believe that one day, Mordor will be a land of grassy plains, and of well-kept gardens."  
Ingold shrugged, "It may be as you speak, but my heart doubts it. Always this land will be a stain upon Middle-earth, and nothing will take hold here."  
"These are merely possibilities," Anárion said, "And none will be possible unless we focus on the task at hand. Have the scouts come back?"  
Ingold turned away from Gorgoroth to his commander, "They have."  
"And what do they say?"  
Ingold took a deep breath before continuing, and he looked somewhat nervous, or so it seemed to Anárion, "The scouts say that the garrison at the Morannon can see a faint wisp of dust on the horizon, and they believe it to be the host of Lothlorien and Greenwood. They should be here tomorrow evening."  
Anárion nodded, and was about to turn away when Ingold clapped a hand on his shoulder. Anárion looked into the face of Ingold, and saw that he was distressed.  
"Is there something else, Ingold?" asked Anárion, his voice full of concern.  
The younger man nodded, "Yes m'lord." He paused for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was somewhat shaky, "The Morannon garrison has sent out their own scouts, almost forty leagues down the Ered Lithui. Their scouts say that they came across large numbers of tracks that no orc- foot made. No foot of the faithless men either," he said quickly as Anárion opened his mouth to speak.  
Anárion closed and opened his mouth several times, knowing what Ingold was suggesting.  
"They think it was one of the Black Nùmenorians, do they?"  
Ingold nodded grimly, "They do indeed m'lord. Also, they came across a rider, a rider dressed all in black. They thought it was one of the Nazgûl, so great was its menace."  
"Nay, all the riders save their Lord are bottled within Minas Ithil," said Anárion as he shook his head, "It seems to me that it could be one of Ar-Pharazôn's deputies he sent to Umbar."  
Ingold nodded, "You may be right m'lord. But who, or what, that thing is is not important right now. What matters is what it intends to do, if you understand."  
"I understand what you are saying, Ingold. I would not lose any sleep over it. It probably means nothing. Come," Anárion gestured to the fire, "Let us break our fast."  
Ingold dug some dried meat out of his pack, and Anárion laid it on a flat rock and placed it over the fire. While the meat cooked, Anárion took some lembas, the staple of the Last Alliance's diet, and dried fruit from his own pack. He laid them on a piece of cloth near the fire to warm them, and then took from a leather pouch on his belt a flask of elven wine. They passed it between each other as the fire slowly heated the meat.  
At last it was finished, and they broke their fast on the meat and fruit, but ate little of the lembas; after six years of it they were a bit tired of it. The wine was nearly gone, and Ingold leaned back with the flask clutched in his hand, looking content. Anárion walked over to the edge of the precipice and looked out over his camp, which by now was buzzing with activity.  
Six thousand men were under Anárion's command; a number which he felt was excessive. He was here to watch for the hosts of the Galadhrim and Greenwood, not to offer battle to any marauding orcs. Yet, in the early morning sun-light that all were still only getting used to, Anárion was filled with such a sense of pride that he could feel his chest swelling just by standing there. He walked back to the rock where Ingold lay, smiling in the warmth of the sun.  
Anárion sat down beside him and slumped back against the rock. Letting the sun wash over his face, he smiled. Without opening his eyes, he turned to Ingold,  
"Ingold?"  
"Yes m'lord?" came the languorous reply.  
"You watch over the camp today. I am going to take a rest."  
"Aye m'lord," said Ingold, though he did not move.  
Before long, both men were asleep against the rock, basking in the warm sunlight.  
  
Anárion came to with a start and, glancing wildly around, he rose. Not sure what had awoken him, he carefully checked the surrounding area, hoping beyond hope that it was just a small animal that had moved suddenly in the tangled brush. He suddenly stood stock straight: there were no animals in Mordor.  
He walked silently past the dying remains of his fire, and over to the edge of the precipice. There, off in the distance, was a huge, black mass, moving like a centipede over the plains of Gorgoroth.  
'Easterlings,' thought Anárion, 'The encampment! They will be set upon and slain before they know what is happening!'  
He looked straight down to where his troops were camped, well hidden from the plains by rocks and brush. In the calm, cool hours before darkness fell, there was little activity. Anárion looked back out to the plain; how long could his force delay the Easterlings, before they themselves were slain? An hour? Two? Perhaps more? His head swirled with possible plans of action and their respective costs and gains.  
'Hold a moment,' he thought suddenly, 'They are marching south, not east. Is Orodruin their destination?'  
Indeed, as their file marched onward, the leaders turned down Sauron's road to Orodruin. Anárion crept silently over to Ingold and shook the other man awake. Ingold groaned as he rolled over onto his side, still nearly asleep, but when Anárion placed his hand over his mouth, he quickly sat up and looked questioningly at Anárion.  
Putting a finger to his lips, Anárion gestured over at the precipice. The two men quietly moved over. Peeking over the precipice, they saw the long line of Easterlings continue to march past. They sat for nearly twenty minutes that way, terribly afraid that at any moment they would be spotted and destroyed.  
It never happened. Eventually the Easterling line faded into the distance, south over to Orodruin. Ingold wiped a hand across his sweaty brow,  
"I thought we were doomed for sure, m'lord," he said.  
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I do not think those men are going to be used, yet. I am beginning to feel my brother's doubts about the whole thing."  
"And I do as well," said Ingold, "What shall we do my lord?"  
Anárion shook his head once again, "Nothing. We shall do nothing. Tell none, and should any tell you, tell them to keep silent." He stood once again. "Douse all the fires, and tell the men to stay quiet until the Galadhrim arrive. Send two riders; one to follow the enemy host as far as they can, the other to track back along its path. I fear the garrison at the Morannon may have fallen."  
"Alas," said Ingold, "It is no doubt as you speak. I shall send riders my lord." With those words, he turned down the path to go do his task.  
Anárion merely nodded in response, and he lost himself in thought. Was this merely a ruse, to drive him mad, as it was doing? Or was it something much more sinister? He shook the thought from his head, and wrapped himself in his cloak to ward off a sudden chill. If it stayed like this, the men would be very angry at the lack of fires.  
Was this the doing of Sauron as well? Or was it merely coincidence? The more time Anárion spent in Mordor, the more it seemed that he second- guessed himself. It was as though the very air sucked at his will, draining every drop of courage from him.  
"I will not take this any longer," he stated calmly, staring out over the barren plains.  
"My lord?" Ingold turned back from his decent. Looking up at his Lord and Captain, Ingold felt a rush of pride and honor run through him. It wormed its way from his toes up to his head, and his heart was lifted.  
Anárion looked to him painfully noble and sad, standing upon the precipice as though it were the bow of a mighty ship. His hair and cloak swaying in the wind merely added to his aura of majesty, and his armor glinting in the sun made him appear to be one of the great Lords of Men, perhaps Húrin the Elf-friend, a lord both fair and terrible.  
The spell woven over Ingold was broken as Anárion turned down to look at his captain. In his face was written the tale of six years of sorrow and weariness, and want of sunlight and green earth. It pained Ingold, not the pain of pride as before, but the pain of one who has been given the news that a loved one will soon die. Yet in Anárion's eyes was written the greatest hurt. In those sea-grey eyes there was longing, and sorrow, and weariness of ash and rock, and also pain and guilt for those that had died for him. Ingold cast his own eyes down upon the rocky ground, lest the pain of his lord split his heart asunder.  
"I was speaking to myself, Ingold," said Anárion, in a voice that revealed none of the anguish written in his face, "You have a duty to do, so do not trouble yourself with me."  
"It is no trouble, lord," Ingold mumbled as he turned back down the winding stone path to the camp.  
As soon as the man was out of earshot, Anárion smiled grimly, "Not now perhaps, Ingold, but when my time comes, I think you will have enough problems of your own to take upon yourself any of mine."  
He stood there for a while, cloak still waving in the wind, and his mind deep in thought. After a time, it seemed he had found some solace in the designs of his mind, and he turned back to his fire.  
He smothered it with dirt and stones, and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. It would be a long night, one without sleep, and now he did not even have a fire. He leaned back against the rapidly cooling stones and let his eyes roam freely over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. The sun sank behind the Ered Lithui, and darkness fell suddenly over the land.  
Anárion closed his eyes, but sleep would not come, and across his plane of thought, visions of his own death danced. He was not bound this time, but was pinned to the earth with countless black-feathered shafts.  
He shifted his position, and willed the dreams away. Focusing on what good things he could recall of Nùmenor, and of Gondor, he settled himself down. Still sleep would not come, and instead of the beauty of Nùmenor and Gondor, he saw only ugliness. Sacrifices in the Great Temple of Ar-Pharazôn, or deep within Ered Nimras, in caves that that faithless people dwelt. He saw fires in the gardens of Ithilien and Rómmena, and the great wave that consumed all of Nùmenor.  
At length, he gave up all hope of sleep and sat staring into the darkness. He remained in that state until dawn. Ingold and several others came and went, but he paid them no mind. Somewhere across that barren plain, a menacing presence settled on him, and he despaired.  
  
The next day at noon, the scouts returned, riding at the head of a marching column of elves. The hosts of Lothlorien and Greenwood had arrived. Clad all in green, and lightly armored, they sang as they walked, and the sound brightened that foul land. The hearts of all who heard them were lifted, and hidden enemies trembled with fear. At the head of the marching hosts rode Celeborn and Galadriel, Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, along with Gwathôl, King of Mirkwood and Father of Thranduil.  
Neither force had much cavalry, as they waged war mostly in the forests, and were swift in moving from tree to tree. Gwathôl had, however, bartered horses from the men who lived in Anduin's vale, and so had a force of nearly three thousand mounted archers. Totaled together, he had nearly fifteen thousands at his command. Celeborn commanded nearly seventeen thousands, but this was near the whole of his people, as very few had come to the pass of Cirith Gorgor.  
Anárion, having come down from his perch above the camp the hour before, stepped forward to great the Elf-Lords. He raised his right hand and smiled, almost half-heartedly,  
"Mae govannen, edhellenhîr."  
Celeborn leapt down from his horse, a great white stallion, with ease and grace attributed to the first-born. He glided over to Anárion and clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled,  
"Mae govannen mellon!" Celeborn embraced Anárion, and when Anárion did not return it, he moved back to arm's length and studied the man's face. It was covered with ash and dust, and underneath the once-fair face was lined with worry and a tangled mask of old scars. There were dark rings under his eyes. In those eyes Celeborn thought he saw pain and horror lurking just beneath the calm surface. He frowned, "You seem troubled, Anárion son of Elendil."  
Anárion closed his eyes, and when he opened them, what Celeborn believed he had seen was gone. He shook his head and extended his arm to grasp the elf's shoulder. He smiled again, however falsely and shook his head,  
"It is nothing, save perhaps weariness. A short rest should take care of it, and I can take such a thing now that you have arrived. Come in," he removed his arm from Celeborn's shoulder and swept in back in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire hidden camp, "Welcome, Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien, to my humble abode, however temporary it may be."  
Celeborn bowed low before Anárion, and from the head of the column his wife Galadriel spoke,  
"Had we known that Men of Gondor were so fair-spoken, we might have visited Minas Anor and Ithilien long ago."  
Anárion bowed to Galadriel, "I thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but I fear that not all in my country are as well-mannered."  
Galadriel's eyes swiftly turned on to a group of men standing nearby. They were shorter and stockier than the Men of Nùmenor, and they did not wear the emblem of the White Tree and Seven Stars of Nùmenor. They were swarthy men. Her eyes shifted back to Anárion, and stared at him accusingly.  
Barely perceivably, Anárion shook his head and mouthed 'not yet, but soon' in Westron, and again in Sindarin. Galadriel nodded, also barely noticeably, and then said aloud,  
"At least we can say that men of Gondor are not afraid to point out their own weaknesses."  
Anárion's eyes widened with fear at those words; surely Galadriel had gone too far. He glanced about, but none of the men standing about had caught the dual meaning. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief and then bowed low once again,  
"Once more I must thank you for your kind words Lady Galadriel, but come! We cannot stand about on the plain all day. Your people must be weary after your journey. We do not have much at this camp, but all that we have, we will share with you."  
With those words, he came out of his bow, and moved swiftly over to Galadriel. Kneeling and cupping his hands, he made a step for her to step down. She smiled at him, and dismounted her horse.  
Galadriel leaned down, and clasped a hand on either side of his head. Slowly, she dragged him up from where he knelt in the dust, and she gently kissed his forehead. As she was pulling away, she whispered,  
"Meet me tonight, just outside of camp. There is something we must speak of."  
Before Anárion could respond Galadriel said aloud, "Again I must thank you for your courtesy, Lord Anárion."  
The corners of Anárion's lips twitched slightly, "And again I must thank you for your kindness in your words, Lady of the Golden Wood."  
With those words he stood and bowed once again to Galadriel, Celeborn, Gwathôl and all the other elf-lords in attendance. Galadriel offered him her arm, and he took it. As one, Celeborn, Galadriel and Anárion walked into the hidden camp, and the hosts followed them in, marching to a slow beat, nearly like a funeral dirge.  
  
Ingold pulled Anárion aside briefly as they walked back to the camp. Anárion raised an eyebrow at his captain, who answered,  
"The scouts say the Morannon garrison is all dead. Hacked into pieces in most cases."  
Anárion lowered his head, "It is as I feared. Say nothing of this to any man or elf. I still have some hope that it may be nothing."  
"Hopes often go awry in this land sir."  
"What you say is true enough, but we cannot afford any doubt in the ranks. Keep this under wraps." He smiled, "Come, we are just about to entertain the elf lords at the evening meal."  
The two walked off in the late afternoon light to Anárion's tent.  
  
Anárion stood up slowly, as though it pained him to do so. The others, Celeborn and the Elf-lords, Ingold and his captains, all looked at him inquisitively. He smiled, again half-heartedly.  
"I am afraid that I can no longer play the role of host this evening. I have certain . . . business," he glanced at Galadriel, and she nodded, "that I must attend to. Ingold," his captain's head jerked up, "I trust that you will carry out my duties for me." He bowed to all the elf-lords, "Good day to you my lords, we will meet again."  
He quickly ducked out of the tent, and walked with his long strides out to the edge of the camp. Two soldiers approached him, but he insisted that he take solitary guard duty. They departed, and he wrapped himself in his black cloak. Were it not for his face, he would have been as invisible as a Nazgûl, sitting there in the fast-fading twilight. He sat, his expression hard and stern, until he saw Galadriel.  
Galadriel had that day chosen to wear a simple white gown, and it glittered in both the sun and the stars. It merely enhanced her natural radiance. She looked, to Anárion, to be as fair as one of the Valar. He silently stood, and walked to her.  
He thought that he was quiet, and his body near invisible, but Galadriel did not seem surprised when he moved into position next to her. She smiled at him, and he bowed slightly.  
With her hands she brought him back up again and continued to smile, "Anárion, you need not bow so often. There is a point when it crosses the line from courteous to suspicious."  
Anárion nodded, "You wanted to see me?"  
  
Galadriel's smile did not leave, "Yes, Anárion. You may have deceived my husband with your words of bravado, but you will not fool me."  
Anárion took a step back, shocked, "What do you mean by this?"  
Galadriel advanced a step, "You are filled with a nameless fear; it is evident in your eyes. Do not try to hide it!"  
"Why? What point is there in letting men know that their commander is afraid? No, not afraid, terrified. Terrified at the prospect of going face to face with . . ." he shuddered, ". . . Him, as we will no doubt have to someday, someday soon."  
Galadriel looked at him sternly, "You must never stand alone, for isolation is His greatest strength." Her look softened, "Anárion, Elendil's son, you cannot let the nameless things that claw at the back of your mind rule your deeds. You are a Son of Nùmenor, a Lord of a noble people. Your will is great, and your mind strong. You are capable of weathering this storm."  
Anárion nodded, and was silent for a moment. Suddenly he said, "Galadriel! You have the gift of foresight, do you not?"  
"Some say I do, some say I do not. Why do you ask?"  
Anárion swallowed, "I have had . . . visions, some might call them. Visions of my own demise at the hands of Sauron. I need to know, are they true?"  
Galadriel smiled wryly, "I believe your father says this often, 'with Sauron nothing is as it seems'. I suggest that you take his advice."  
"I must know."  
"A man's fate should be something he should discover himself. . ."  
Anárion fell to his knees, "I beseech you! I can barely force myself to move for fear it should push me on that path. I need to know, is it my fate to die here, and never again see Minas Anor that I love?"  
Galadriel gave him a look laden with pity, "I need no foresight to see that if you continue as you are, you will die."  
Anárion cocked his right eyebrow, "My Lady?"  
"You can no longer despair," she knelt down beside him, and their eyes met. In Galadriel, Anárion saw hope, but mingled amongst it sorrow. In Anárion, however, Galadriel saw a terrible thing. She said nothing about it, but instead continued as though she had seen nothing. But in her heart, she began to feel fear for the Son of Elendil. "You are a child of Nùmenor, and no matter what awaits you, you will meet it with courage."  
Anárion stood, and his eyes were wet with tears, "My Lady," he said, "Once again I must thank you for your words. You have brought hope to where there was none. I must go now and rest. Let your husband know that we move out tomorrow morning."  
He spun on his heel and stalked back into the camp, but his step was lighter, and he whistled softly as he moved throw the rows of tents, and he cheerfully greeted both elf and man. For in his heart, something new stirred, a feeling that he had not felt since the fall of Nùmenor. It gave him courage, and it gave him a new aura of nobility around him. It was hope.  
Galadriel, however, remained as she was, kneeling in the dust of the slopes of the Morgai. And she wept, for all she had seen in Anárion's eyes was death and ruin.  
  
The camp was abuzz with activity the next morning. In the grey dawn, men and elves hurriedly packed belongings and food, while cavalry-men threw saddles on their horses and tightened cinches. Anárion's royal guard polished their shields and sharpened their swords and the Lords of Elves and Men broke their fast in Anárion's tent.  
It was an altogether different atmosphere at the table that morning. The whole affair seemed rushed and stressed. Many were surprised at Anárion's sudden change in mood. He seemed quite jovial, and laughed and sang with the rest of them. Celeborn winced at Anárion's off-key baritone voice, but said nothing and smiled as they finished the song.  
However, even as Anárion had become good-humored, Galadriel had become sullen. She would not sing nor would she speak with anyone but Celeborn, and then only briefly. She seemed to be brooding, and perhaps only Sauron's arrival would have snapped her out of her musings.  
When breakfast was ended, Celeborn and Galadriel left arm-in-arm to see to their horses, and Ingold went to command the mustering of the Nùmenorians. One by one, the other lords and captains left to see to their own tasks. Soon, Anárion and Gwathôl, along with six servants, were left. The servants set about packing the tent for the journey back to the Barad- dûr. Gwathôl turned to Anárion,  
"Do you think we have a chance?"  
Anárion shook his head slowly, "I am the wrong person to ask. Gil- galad seems to think this plan will work, and my father also, but I fear that we are merely dancing into Sauron's hands."  
"Perhaps Mordor has made you paranoid," suggested Gwathôl.  
"Six years of this place can do nearly anything to you," he paused. In that pause, something reached out and snatched control of his mind and mouth, "How is it that a King of such a noble land can ride after six years of war to the marches of Mordor with such a great host?"  
Gwathôl frowned and furrowed his brow, "What are you suggesting? That the elves of Greenwood are cowards?"  
Anárion's hand moved to his sword-hilt, "I have suggested no such thing, but it seems that you believe it so."  
"What have you done that makes you better than my people? Rested on your haunches for six years?" Gwathôl snarled.  
"At the least we joined battle with his host ere his strength waned!" Anárion retorted sharply. "And we have kept him bottled within his strongholds, even with the price of our lives and our spirits!"  
"You would have found a host of enemies on your rear and a ruined land behind them if it were not for us!"  
"I doubt that! A mindless rabble of orcs may threaten you in your woods, but my people are safe behind walls of stone!"  
They stared at each other for a moment. Anárion broke it and sat down upon a packed trunk. He put his head in his hands and shook it gently.  
"I apologize, Gwathôl. I did not mean to call your honor into question. I suppose madness took me." He looked up at the Elven King, "It happens in this land. It is the will of Sauron, I guess, to sunder his enemies from one another."  
"I do not hold it against you," said Gwathôl, relaxing his muscles, "You are weary, and you have a long road ahead of you."  
"Sometimes I fear that it is too long," Anárion said sullenly.  
Gwathôl frowned, "Then you have been putting on a front all morning?"  
Anárion shrugged, "Yes and no. That is not how I would normally act anywhere at any time. I am, however, trying to keep myself from despair. It has attacked me many times before, and in many places. This was one of them."  
Gwathôl walked over to Anárion clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and said, "Do not let your courage fail yet, son of Elendil. The war is still left to be fought."  
Gwathôl swept aside the tent flap with one arm. With one final look back at the tall man sitting on the trunk, he left the tent. Anárion stared at the opposite wall of the tent until servants began to take it down. What did he have left? Orcs ravaged his homeland, his wife was dead, his sons hidden away from the world, and now his sanity began to slip through his fingers like water. He thought of Galadriel, and of her words. He had that night made up his mind not to despair, but now he had seen what kind of hold Sauron had on him; he did not see how he couldn't. Gwathôl's words echoed in his mind, 'the war is still left to be fought'.  
In the dark recesses of his mind, an idea began to grow. He had a responsibility, to fight this war, not for himself, but for the thousands of woman and children that depended on their king. Even if he should die, then so be it.  
Firm for once in his purpose, he stood up to find that he was no longer in a tent. Two servants came and took the trunk he had been sitting on. All that was left where his tent had been was his armor and helm on his cloak that was spread out over the dusty ground.  
He put on his armor quickly, and jammed the helm down on his head. He moved swiftly to where the hosts were assembling, fastening his cloak as he ran. He skidded out of the brush into the assembly. Six thousand black and grey clad men raised their right arm in salute and shouted his name. Pride surged through him in mighty waves, and it intensified as Ingold brought his house. With one mighty bound, he leapt to the saddle. He wheeled his chestnut stallion about and drew his sword.  
As he swung it over his head he shouted to the amassed forces, "Men of Gondor, Elves of the great forests! We have been idle long enough! Soon now, very soon, we will break down the gates of Orodruin and the Barad- dûr! We will bring that slime Sauron the Deceiver forth from his filthy hole! We will destroy the last remnant of that evil the nameless one created long ago! Go now and fear no evil will or deed!"  
A great cheer rose up from the hosts, and Anárion smiled. Genuinely, and for the first time in a long time. They rode off, first the cavalry, sitting high on their proud steeds. Next came the long columns of infantry, elves and men, backs straight and arms swinging; they sang as they marched. Then came the wagons, laden with supplies and arms, and pulled by great bulls.  
At the very head of the column rode Anárion and his party. The King of Gondor sat high in his saddle, and for once seemed truly and rightly at ease. The shadow had fallen from his heart and it was replaced by a great beacon of hope. Yet, deep within him, fear and desperation still worked, and a nameless dread still held sway over his actions. However, none noticed.  
When he saw this, Celeborn turned to Galadriel. "I have no idea what you made him do, but he seems now to be thrice the man he ever was."  
Galadriel smiled in a manner that could be described as either sly or sorrowful, "He has accepted his own fate, and this mood is of his own making. I cannot force him to do this."  
And with that, Galadriel refused to say more throughout the entire journey across Gorgoroth.  
This journey took the better part of four days, across a dry and barren country that was utterly devoid of life. For four days they toiled over the rocks and stones. Many, of both kindreds, were injured on the rocks; they were borne in the wagons with shredded feet and legs. These wagons had even less luck. Barely an hour would pass before one or more would break a wheel or an axel. Horses were not exempt either. Nearly six hundred had to be killed after they broke a leg.  
One evening, after they had halted, Celeborn came to speak with Anárion. Even the Lord of the Galadhrim was not free of injury; his entire left leg had been torn up upon the rocks when his horse stumbled. He leaned heavily on an unstrung bow as he moved through the rows of weary soldiers. Anárion turned to him as he approached. The King of Gondor was still wearing the same fierce smile as when they set out.  
He moved forward to help Celeborn as he stumbled. Celeborn nodded his thanks, then spoke, "Lord Anárion, I do not mean to be disrespectful, after all, you do know your way around this putrid land better than I," he paused, "But would it not be possible for us to have taken Sauron's road and arrive at the encampment just as quickly, and with smaller injury?"  
Anárion smiled grimly. He thought only of the Easterling host he had seen, and how they would be at the same disadvantage if they pursued them through the rocks. Something nameless clawed at the back of his mind, and he withheld the fact, and answered Celeborn with a mere: "No."  
He then walked away to move among the men, and Celeborn stared after him. He shook his head slowly, "That man moves as though he has grown tired of life." This was not far from the truth.  
  
It was a ragged and weary army that finally made its way into the encampment of the Last Alliance. In a long line they dragged into the long rows of tents, exhausted to the point of collapse. Only Anárion and Gwathôl still stood tall. Gwathôl immediately leapt from his saddle to greet Thranduil, his only son. As the two embraced, Anárion wheeled his horse about and trotted over to where Gil-galad stood.  
Gil-galad leaned upon Aiglos as he watched the weary soldiers trudge through the camp, wondering what could have forced them to stay off the roads. Anárion leaped off his horse and bowed to Gil-galad.  
Gil-galad stared hard at Anárion, "I would hope you have good reason to go traipsing about Gorgoroth with an army already weary and footsore."  
Anárion grimaced, "My king, if we could take this conversation somewhere where unfriendly ears might not hear of it."  
Gil-galad stared a moment longer at the tall man, then nodded. "Come with me," he said and walked towards his tent.  
Anárion followed slowly, looking up into the sky occasionally, as though something was up there, just out of sight. As the pair walked through the jumble of tents, Anárion noticed that there were far fewer men and elves moving about than there should be, even with the newly arrived sylvan elves.  
They passed through the Nùmenorian quarter, and here there seemed to be more, but there were still far fewer than Anárion remembered. A man he recognized, Aerlinn, a captain, rushed out into the wide avenue between the tents.  
"Aerlinn!" he called, "What is this all about? There are far fewer of our own people hear than there ought to be!"  
Aerlinn winced, "You ought not to speak so loudly, Lord. The enemy is not only watching, but listening as well."  
"Of this I am well aware, Aerlinn; my vigilance hasn't changed. But I fear you have changed. The Aerlinn I know would never shun a direct question from his Lord and Master."  
"My Lord," said Aerlinn, "All are nervous, and do not dare speak openly of anything. The elven lords say that it is all coming down to it, and that our labors are about to bear fruit."  
"It will be a deadly harvest," said Anárion bitterly.  
"That may be true, Lord. Men have been going away quietly, usually at dusk. Those that remain seldom leave their tents. I believe we are getting ready for the pl. . .," Aerlinn caught himself, "For. . . it, I suppose."  
Anárion nodded, "The board is set, and now it lies with us to make the move. I will see you on the field of battle, Aerlinn. You are to be one of the captains under my command."  
Aerlinn touched his right temple, "May the grace of the Valar protect you my Lord."  
Anárion returned the gesture, "And to you as well Aerlinn." With that, Anárion spun on his heel and trotted off after Gil-galad, who was rapidly disappearing in the distance.  
Gil-galad slipped into his tent and sat down on a simple wooden chair. He reached behind him and pulled a small harp from a chest. On the large wooden table that occupied most of the tent there was a bottle of elven wine, and two goblets. He poured the wine and waited for Anárion to arrive while strumming his harp.  
Anárion ducked into the tent and sat opposite Gil-galad. He looked the Elven king up and down. The fair face was pinched and drawn, and fatigue played about the grey eyes. The Elven king half-smiled at the man, and gestured towards the wine,  
"Help yourself, Lord Anárion. Quench your thirst, and then we shall talk."  
Anárion took one of the goblets and sipped politely at it. He set it aside and said, "My king, be not angry with me, I beg you. Fear and madness drove me to do what I have done!"  
Gil-galad raised an eyebrow at Anárion. He stared into the disheveled face, stared at the dark circles under the eyes, at the lines of care at the edges of the lips and eyes. He half-smiled again, "I am not angry with you, Anárion. I am merely puzzled. You are a brave man," he stood, "What could possibly frighten you this badly?"  
Anárion sat still for a long moment, considering his answer. Finally, he began, "My sanity is slipping Gil-galad. To not slip into madness is like trying to hold back the flow of the River Anduin. He is bearing down on me, and I cannot keep upright." He looked at Gil-galad pointedly, "If I wait much longer, my last defenses will fall, and my mind will be open to His will."  
Gil-galad looked into Anárion's eyes; his own full of concern, "You are fast becoming a broken man, Anárion. There are fears that you will not share with anyone else. Tell me, what has you scared?"  
"The enemy has brought in new strength from the east. A great host, greater than the one Celeborn and Gwathôl have brought, marched towards Orodruin no more than five nights ago."  
"Have you told Celeborn, or anyone for that matter?"  
"No," Anárion kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, "I have been . . . wavering, as of late. I will be as joyous as a small child one moment, fell as a cornered beast the next. I would have told Celeborn, but, something stopped me."  
Gil-galad took the wine bottle and poured himself a goblet, "We will have a council tonight. In the meantime, you should go take some rest. I have a spare cot in the back of the tent."  
Anárion drained his goblet, and stood. He nodded to Gil-galad and moved into the back of the tent, massaging the bridge of his nose. After draining his own goblet, Gil-galad silently walked to the back of the tent. He pushed aside the flap and looked in.  
Anárion was asleep, which came as no surprise. He had been operating on very little sleep for far too long. His face, however, was twisted in torment. Gil-galad let the flap fall back into place. He waved a hand over Vilya, and whispered under his breath for a moment. Anárion's face relaxed, and he had his first nightmare-free sleep in many weeks.  
Gil-galad walked back to his seat, and stood over it for a few moments, thinking. The greatest crucible still laid before them, and with men everywhere in worse shape than Anárion, how would they meet it? 


	4. Chapter IV

Ashgash the Slobberer, Captain of the Dark Tower stepped out onto the ramparts of the walls of the Barad-dûr. He took a deep breath with his foul nostrils, slashed and tattered in a hundred battles. The air was rank with the smell of orc. He smiled, revealing blackened teeth, filed into points.  
He kicked out at orcs lying drunk and prostate at his feet, snarling at them. They scrambled away, giving him a clear bath to the battlements. He stepped up to them and looked out over the barren plains of Gorgoroth. Out in the distance, he could just make out the dust-covered tents of the Last Alliance.  
He frowned. Normally the camp was virtually buzzing with activity by midmorning, which it was. His tattered brows knitted; as a matter of fact, there had been very little activity since the great host of lightly armored elves had come in four days prior. Ashgash eyed the camp with suspicion. After six years of constant assaults and forays, all the silence was unnerving.  
Ashgash took a swig of the orc draught in his hand, and wiped his mouth with a chain-mailed hand. He kicked at a smaller orc sitting back against the wall on the left side. It snarled at him, and he snarled back, than shouted in the gnashing tongue of the orcs,  
"Garn you little maggot! Get me more whiskey or I'll make you wish you'd be born!"  
It slunk off down the stairs, and Ashgash smiled. He turned back to the tents of the Last Alliance and took another swig of the whiskey. A small flash of the sun off metal caught his eye. Then, in the distance, trumpets sounded. Out from the rows of tents marched a host of all sorts.  
  
There were men in silver mail, and long black-shafted spears. They formed up in long columns behind a tall man on a horse. There were dwarves, in mithril and iron, bearing large war axes, and screaming their war cries in Kuzdul. There were elves of all sorts, but many were in Noldorian armor, and it gleaned golden in the sun. Trumpets sounded again, and a great shout rose from the free peoples.  
Ashgash turned to his right to look at another orc. The other was pointing at different companies and muttering under his breath. He crinkled his nose and turned to Ashgash.  
"I only see," he turned back and swept a knobby finger over the host once again, then turned back to Ashgash, "Nine thousands. Wot are they up to? Where are all o' them elves that came in a few days ago?"  
"I dunno, but get them maggots moving. Looks like we'll have ourselves a little fun tonight. There'll be man-flesh to eat!"  
The orc he had sent for his whiskey came back with another bottle. Ashgash snatched it from him, and smashed the other over the orc's head. He took a long draught of the whiskey.  
He wheeled about, "Get up you scum! There's knife-work here that needs doing!"  
  
Anárion sat tall in his saddle at the head of the column. He had spent the previous night polishing his chest plate and helmet; if he was to die, he would die in fine dress. His sword was fresh sharpened, and he had the camp blacksmith make him a new shield. He held in his hand a weapon he had never used before; a lance, with a pennant embroidered with the seven stars and white tree of Gondor. His black cape flapped behind him in the mid-morning breeze. He looked every inch the king that he was.  
His soldiers, well-rested and enflamed with a fury unrivaled by even the most belligerent of Sauron's servants, marched upright in straight columns, and they sang as they marched.  
"To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!  
Though the Barad-dûr is strong and hard!  
As cold as stone and bare as bone!  
We go, we go, we go to war!  
To hew the stone and break the door!  
To the land of gloom with the tramp of doom  
With the roll of drum, we come, we come!  
To the Barad-dûr with doom we come!"  
And the roll of their voices was like thunder, and the trumpets blown by Elrond's host were drowned out by its fury. The dwarves joined in with Anárion's soldiers, and added cries of 'Khazâd ai-mênu!' after each line of 'To the Barad-dûr with doom we come'.  
Anárion smiled, though he felt doubt in his heart. If he was to die today, he would die honorably, as befitted the lord of such a fell people. Glorfindel the Elf Lord rode on a white horse by his side, and he too was smiling. As he looked upon the marching host, he was brought back to days of old in Beleriand, where fair princes and lords rode before armies of tall soldiers in bright mail.  
Some of the Noldor who had fought in those battles long ago rode with them. They were dressed in shining golden mail, and their shields were shaped as leaves, as is the fashion of the elves. Along with them marched many of the Sindar, lightly armored in silver and iron; they bore long bows and short, leaf-bladed spears for stabbing.  
At the head of the elven column rode Elrond, dressed in armor made in Gondolin before its fall. He bore an elven blade, and on his right hand he bore Vilya. Beside him rode Círdan the mariner, in the armor he had worn in Elegast long ago. Behind them rode Galadriel and Celeborn, and though Celeborn wore a shirt of mail, Galadriel had declined to wear any armor. She wore pure-white robes, a hood about her blonde hair. Behind the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien rode Thranduil of Greenwood, and on the back of his horse rode Nalí Bloodtooth. The dwarf looked terribly uncomfortable about being on a horse, but Thranduil would not hear it. About them rode ten of the Greenwood Royal Guard.  
They trotted across the barren plain, banners flapping and cloaks billowing; they paused momentarily to allow the foot soldiers to catch up. They passed by the place where the main host hid, and made a point of not looking at them. The black iron gates of the Barad-dûr rose up before them. There was no movement on the battlements, and the captains of the host reared the horses. Anárion trotted from one end of the gate to the other several times.  
He leapt from his saddle, and walked up to the gate. He kicked at it. When no vengeful arrows shot down from the walls above him, he leaned against it, resting his forehead against the ash-covered iron. After a few moments, he looked up and backed away a dozen paces.  
"Let the Captain of the Barad-dûr come forth! Justice shall be done upon him, whether he hide in his black tower or no! Let him come forth, or it will go evil with him!"  
There was silence. Anárion turned back to the others, and smiled wryly,  
"They obviously have no respect for us."  
Glorfindel smiled grimly and drew his blade, "Then let us punish them for their great folly!" He turned in his saddle, "Bring up the rams!"  
There was a shuffling in the ranks as two score Gondorians brought the great oaken rams forward to the gates. Four hundred more formed a shield wall about them to guard against arrows. No shots were fired from the wall, no hideous orc cries came from inside.  
Anárion's soldiers looked about wildly, drawing their great shields close to their hearts. They muttered amongst themselves, and gripped their spears tighter. Anárion waved his blade at the ram bearers. They smote the great gate with it, once. Twice. Three times they pounded on the gates of the Barad-dûr. There was no answer.  
Now even Glorfindel grew nervous. Was it possible that Sauron knew more than they thought? After a few moments, Anárion gave the signal once again. The ram-bearers smote the door again and again, and soon a steady rhythm of fire-hardened wood on iron began.  
Anárion stamped his boots to the beat of the ram and smashed his sword against his shield. Glorfindel leapt down off his horse and did the same. Soon, every man in the host beat his shield and stamped his feet in time with the ram. Heralds blew their trumpets and shouted the names of their captains. The din was deafening, and yet there was still no movement on the battlements.  
Eventually, the stamping and the clashing of sword on shield died down. Even the ram stopped. The host milled about, wondering what to do. Anárion stood ten yards from the gate, and stared up at the spiked black battlements. He turned to Glorfindel,  
"What do we do?"  
Glorfindel shook his head gravely, "I know not. I guess that we must stay put and wait for High King Gil-galad and King Elendil to attack," he looked meaningfully at Anárion, "I had expected that we would be attacked."  
"As did I," Anárion nodded, "The Dark Lord must know more than we had guessed."  
"Let us hope he does not know all our plans," Glorfindel muttered and turned away from the walls.  
Thranduil, still on his horse, turned as much as he could to face Nalí. He grimaced, "I do not love war Master Dwarf, but this," he gestured to the high walls, "I like even less."  
"My spirits would be lifted greatly if there were but a few orc-necks lined up before me," agreed Nalí.  
"Where are they?" whispered Círdan to Elrond.  
Elrond rubbed a thumb over Vilya nervously, "I do not know. I have been dreading this moment, but now that I am here, I find that I wish that the enemy would swarm us with overwhelming numbers."  
Círdan shook his head, "I would rather have a clear sign that they were all dead," he looked at Elrond with a look of hope upon his face, "You do not think it possible that we have starved them out, do you?"  
Elrond shook his head in disgust, "No. Orcs, being foul as they are, have no reservations to eating their own comrades in time of need."  
Círdan closed his eyes, "They are the worst things to have ever walked the earth."  
"No," said Ingold the Gondorian, coming up behind the pair on his horse, "The foulest thing to walk the earth is a man who breaks an oath. He is both without hope and without honor, and will end up without friends."  
Elrond smiled at Ingold, "You have wisdom beyond your years, Captain. Let us hope you also have skill with a sword."  
"I have no doubt that you shall soon find out," Ingold said.  
  
Elendil the Tall, king of all Eriador, looked out from his hiding place to the north of the Barad-dûr. He saw what Anárion and his host were seeing at the south gate. The battlements were clear, and the tower was silent. He turned to Gil-galad, the normally shining armor of the elven king blackened by fire.  
"None will answer my son's challenge," Elendil said at last, "The fortress of the enemy is silent."  
"Will we stay to the plan?" asked Gil-galad.  
"I see no reason why we should not," said Elendil, "This is merely unexpected. Remember that we are the bait, not Anárion and Glorfindel."  
Gil-galad nodded and turned to the hosts that he and Elendil led. He waved at them, and slowly, in a great line, they marched down the gully. Most were hunched double, and their spears bore no banners, and their armor was blackened. On and on they marched past him, and there seemed to be no end to them. Yet this was only part of the host, and no doubt Sauron had many more than they. At last, men came with their horses. He and Elendil rode up the column, pressed flat against their horses.  
They came to where the front ranks of the army had assembled in front of the walls. Up and down in front of the ranks they rode, waiting for the rest to get into position. Gil-galad nervously rubbed his ring finger, at the spot where Vilya had once rested. He felt strangely naked without it. He looked up to find Elendil watching him concernedly. The man put his hand on Gil-galad's shoulder, and smiled slightly,  
"A man who cannot part with a treasure at need is foolish, my friend. Let it be."  
Gil-galad nodded, and put his hand on Elendil's shoulder. "Whatever happens today, my friend, I want you know that it has been an honor to fight beside you."  
"And I have been honored to fight beside you, High King of the Noldor. Let us go now to meet our doom, whatever it may be."  
Presently the host was in position, they stood in nervous ranks. Elves prayed to the Valar under their breath, while men fumbled with amulets and charms. Elendil turned his horse about to face them.  
"Soldiers of the Alliance of Elves and Men! Hark to me! Today is the day where all our labor will bear fruit! The Barad-dûr will be broken, and the pits laid bare! Today is the day when the orcs of Sauron will all be slain! Today is the day that men will win renown! Beyond those walls lies the end to our struggle! Reach out! Take it! It is yours! Stand fast, warriors of the West!"  
A great shout rose from the gathered host and many clashed together sword and shield. Elendil raised his sword up on high, and twirled it above his head. Men and elf alike cheered. Heralds blew trumpets and men beat on drums. They raised a terrible din, one that the enemy could not even pretend to ignore.  
Orcs rose on the walls, their foul faces twisted with hatred. They held in their hands bows with black-feathered arrows, and they drew them back. The Galadhrim and the Greenwood elves, all under the command of King Gwathôl, positioned themselves in serried rows. At Gwathôl's command, the first row fired, and drew back to the rear of the formation. The second row drew, and fired, and retreated to the rear. In this efficient formation, the elven archers wreaked great destruction on the orcs on the walls.  
The orcs did not return the volley. They ducked behind the battlements, but no vengeful shafts found the flesh of some hapless Alliance soldier. Slowly, and against the will of their commanders, many soldiers relaxed their guard slightly. Then, at some hidden signal, the orcs on the walls let their arrows loose. They fell in a rain on the ranks of the Last Alliance. Men and elves by the score fell pierced by barbed shafts. One caught Elendil in the thigh, but the King of Eriador pulled it from his leg and rallied his troops.  
The Alliance's archers fired again, and orcs fell. Elves brought up a ram made of bronze and iron, and it hammered away at the gates, but to no avail. Orcs rained down arrows on the beleaguered soldiers of the Alliance. Mounds of the slain began to pile up.  
Elendil rallied his soldiers, and long tall ladders of wood and iron were brought to the front. The bravest of the Nùmenorians and the Noldor climbed the ladders to where orcs rained down arrows and boiling oil. Gil- galad judged that the time was right. He signaled to his herald. The great trumpet sounded. Once, twice, three times!  
On the other side of the tower, where Anárion and Glorfindel's host waited, the trumpet was heard. Beyond them, out in the ashen plains, Isildur's ears caught the plaintive tones. He raised his sword above his head and shouted to them,  
"Elves and Men! My brothers! This is a day we have waited long for! Let us go forth and claim our victory! Now to wrath, and ruin, and the red dawn!"  
And the men of Nùmenor shouted in return, "Isildur! Isildur! Our Prince! Lead us to victory! Forth Nùmenor!"  
And the elves shouted, "To Ruin! Avi-i-eldar!"  
With a last great shout, they surged from their hiding place. They ran at full tilt across the bare furlong of ashy ground. Isildur and the men of his house, along with Gildor and his house made up the vanguard. They unfurled their banners, and the gold tree upon green and the white tree upon black swayed in the fast-growing breeze.  
The vanguard reached the gates, and the enemy did nothing. Anárion and Isildur pooled their men to make a great shield wall, behind which the archers crouched. The enemy did nothing. The remainder of the host reached the gate, and added their own shields to the shield wall. The enemy did nothing.  
Escorted by a thousand of the Noldor, the terrible machines came up. All three were indeed five times the size of a man, just as Anárion had said. Great stones were brought up as well, borne in carts by dozens of horses. The machines were positioned behind the great shield wall, and they were swarmed by hundreds of Nùmenorians, who created a second, far tighter, shield wall about the machines themselves. Then the greater shield wall bent back into a half-circle, and Nùmenorian and Noldorian cavalry closed the rear.  
Anárion wiped his brow; thus far, everything was going to plan. He turned to his brother, sitting beside him behind the shield wall. Isildur looked at him, his eyes grave. He gave Anárion a small nod, and then stood.  
Isildur slung his great shield off his back, and held its black wood close to his heart. Pushing through the apex of the shield wall, he dropped his spear and drew his sword. Presently he came to the bare ground between the host and the wall. Boldly, he turned his back on the wall, and thrust his sword in the air.  
All down the line men cheered, and cried 'Isildur! Isildur!'. The Nùmenorian prince turned back to the forbidding black walls of the Barad- dûr and waved his men onward. As one the host, cavalry, shield wall and machines, moved forward. With great speed they traversed the distance between themselves and the wall. When they stopped, Isildur stood with his nose nearly touching the black metal. He turned back to his host, and with some nervousness noted that the enemy had yet to show itself.  
Presently the shield-wall parted and revealed the machines. The men and elves that made up the first shield wall scattered to the sides and rear of the machines. There they made smaller shield walls, and groups of archers crouched behind each wall. All had been well-drilled in the technique.  
Dozens of men swarmed the horse drawn carts and began hastily unloading the carts. Anárion glanced up at the battlements. No orcs. None. He turned to Isildur, still standing in the open near the wall,  
"Brother," he called, "What is afoot? Is Sauron hatching some new trickery for us, or have we been impossibly fortunate?"  
Isildur backed away from the wall and out of the path of the machines. He crouched down by Anárion and wiped his ashy face with a hand covered in even more ash. "I suspect the latter," he said bitterly, "Sauron would taunt us like this before he squashes us like a fly."  
"I intend to be the one doing the squashing," Anárion said sternly.  
Isildur did not reply, but merely gave his brother an appraising look. Then he stood, and turned to the machines, where men were lifting boulders into the sacks. They nestled them into position, then backed away. One man was left at each, standing at the rear of the machine near a large lever. As one, they looked at Isildur and Anárion, waiting for their orders. Isildur removed his helmet, and stood still.  
A few moments passed in overwhelming silence. Faint cries of the dying could be heard from across the three mile diameter of the Barad-dûr. Isildur stood as straight as a pine, a look of internal conflict upon his face. Anárion reached out and grabbed his brother by the belt, while at the same time shouting, "Fire!"  
Anárion barely had enough time to shield his brother and himself with his shield before the three men had pulled the levers. Built up tension in three springs released, and from the siege weapons three stones were hurled at tremendous velocities.  
The stones hit the black wall of the Barad-dûr in a blur of grey and white, and a sound emitted from the impact that made Anárion think the world was splitting asunder. White-hot fragments of molten rock flew past the soldiers of the Last Alliance. Some hit Anárion's shield with such force that they knocked both Anárion and Isildur back. From somewhere behind the brothers anguished screams issued from those struck by the shards of what had once been wall.  
Behind the shards came a cloud of dark-grey dust, and for a few moments, the sounds of coughing drowned out everything else. The fine dust got everywhere; it was worse than the ash that made up the ground. A great deal of it got into Anárion's eyes, but he did not risk lowering his shield to clean it out.  
Eventually, the dust settled. Isildur rose from the ashes, coughing and shaking his head. The dust that had settled in his black hair and beard made it seem as though he had aged thirty years in a few moments. He darted a forward and picked up his helmet, lying in the ash a few feet in front of the shield wall. There was a small dent in it, and one of the wings was twisted backwards. Isildur jammed it onto his head, and looked back.  
Anárion was standing, blinking furiously to get the dust out of his eyes, and behind him the host was gathering their wits and advancing. It was a slow, cautious advance, but an advance nonetheless.  
Anárion jammed his sword into the ashy earth, ripped the leather glove off of his hand, and feverishly rubbed the dust out his eyes. Isildur turned back to what was once the outer wall of the Barad-dûr, and advanced. The thirty Nùmenorians of Isildur's bodyguard broke away from the shield wall and dashed up to form a tight circle around their prince.  
Isildur and his bodyguard climbed through the rubble, braced for an attack at any moment. It did not come. They walked cautiously forward for several yards, then stopped as Isildur signaled a halt. Very slightly, the bodyguard lowered their shields. Isildur lowered his sword and shield to his sides and turned on the spot, taking in the terrible glory of the Barad- dûr.  
He spun quickly and raised his shield at the clatter of shifting rubble, and the bodyguards closest to the noise drew still closer together. Anárion stepped out of the gloom that hung in the gap in the wall. His bodyguard followed him, looking up in amazement as Isildur had done. Anárion smiled and walked over to his brother, easing his way through the circle of bodyguards.  
"We did it." Anárion said simply.  
"Not entirely," said Isildur, "We may be inside, but there are still orcs to manage. Sauron is playing a fine game, but I will not let him take down my guard."  
Men and elves and the occasional dwarf walked slowly through the gap in twos and threes. Nearly two hundred were inside. Anárion motioned to Ingold, who was captaining Anárion's bodyguard. The other man nodded, and signaled to three of the bodyguard, and they followed Anárion along the inside of the wall. Anárion looked closely at the wall, only occasionally looking up to see if there were any enemies.  
He walked nearly forty feet along the wall until he found what he was searching for. There was a hidden set of rungs carved into the rock, and Anárion clambered up them, and at last, after six long years, stood on the battlements of the Barad-dûr. Ingold and his bodyguard came up behind him, panting for breath.  
Anárion leaned out over the battlements to gaze down at the assembled host outside the walls. Even covered in dust and with very little light, there were still glimmers of armor far below. Ingold grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back from the battlements.  
Anárion raised an eyebrow at his Captain of the Guard, who gestured lifted his hands palm upward.  
"It would be a very ignoble death, my lord," he said, "To fall off of a wall you have just conquered."  
"The problem being, of course, that he hasn't conquered it yet," said a voice from behind them. They turned quickly to see Isildur standing on the edge of the walkway.  
"Do not be so pessimistic brother," said Anárion, "Getting inside was half the battle, do you not remember?"  
"Yes, brother," said Isildur, a touch coldly, "What you say is true, but it is the half that is left to be done that concerns me."  
"As it should, I suppose," replied Anárion, "But do not spoil my joy brother. I have had precious little to spare for the past six years."  
"Very well," said Isildur, "But do not let down your guard. He is not beaten yet." Isildur turned from them and shouted orders to the host down below.  
Anárion sat down and leaned against the battlement. He took off his helmet and wiped his brow with a gloved hand. Ingold, leaning against the battlement as well, passed him a flask of water. Minutes passed. Men and Elves, all heavily armed, came up the rungs to stand on the walkway. Hundreds were assembled.  
"Secure the walkway!" shouted Isildur, "And stay together! We haven't taken this pit yet."  
Nearly a thousand black and silver clad Nùmenorians rushed off along the wall to where the battle was being fought. Elves in golden armor secured the turrets set at intervals into the walls. They reported only a few inattentive sentries, who were easily dispatched. Anárion began to feel uneasy at this news.  
"And we made so much noise, brother," he said worriedly, "Surely even orcs are not that stupid."  
Isildur scowled and shook his fist at the lofty citadel of the Barad- dûr, "Once again, Sauron tries to play us for fools. No, we are not as dim- witted as he believes us to be. Remain vigilant."  
Anárion clambered down from the wall, and strode purposefully towards the Barad-dûr. At the deep chasm into the earth that separated the citadel from the outer wall, he stopped, and peered into the depths. He almost believed that he could see things moving in the dark and mists. He almost believed that he could here the scrape of metal on stone. Shaking his head, he backed away from the abyss.  
  
In the deeps, foul things moved. They clambered up the sheer walls using nearly invisible handholds. Their armor clanked and scraped on the black stone. One or two lost their balance and fell, screaming, to the bottom of the pit where the metalworkers and blacksmiths plied their trade. The stopped a mere fathom beneath the rim, waiting, waiting. They would taste man flesh again. But not yet; the Dark Lord planned to toy with his victims for a few moments longer.  
  
Anárion had climbed back up to the wall and sat in one of the wall towers that flanked the main gate, which had been flung open. He had a leather flask of water beside him, and his hands were laced behind his head. For a brief moment, he had managed to snatch a bit of peace. Below him, Elves and men marched through the gate, and they sang songs of victory.  
Isildur silently sat beside his brother. For a moment, the two sat in silence, staring at the black interior of the turret. At last, Isildur spoke,  
"I grow weary of the game Sauron plays with us brother. I wish he would cease tormenting the fly on his back and swat at it."  
Anárion smiled grimly, "I believe we are somewhat greater than a fly, Isildur."  
Isildur smiled as well, "You may be right. I wish to say something to you, Anárion."  
"Indeed, you already are."  
Isildur shook his head, "You are far too eager for a man in the greatest fortress of his greatest enemy."  
"It must be the strain."  
"Indeed." Isildur paused, as if considering what to say. After a moment, he spoke, "Anárion, no matter what happens on this day, I want you to know..."  
What it was that Isildur wanted Anárion to know he would never find out, for at that moment a score of the Nùmenorians sent to the rear-gate returned. The brothers quickly stood up. Isildur stepped forward as the spokes-man kneeled before them.  
"O Lord," he said, "We had merely to show are faces before the foul orcs, and they fled before us."  
"This is an interesting piece of news," mused Isildur.  
"Did you pursue them?" asked Anárion.  
"To a point Lord," said the Nùmenorian, "They cast themselves into the abyss. We have unbarred the gates, but Elendil is suspicious. He sends this message to you: 'Sauron has some evil afoot. Be wary.'  
"Nothing that we have not thought of ourselves," said Anárion bitterly.  
"I will not cross the abyss," said Isildur firmly, "Who can say what evils lie within its depths?"  
"Then let us bring up the weapons. We may fire them from the near side of the abyss."  
Isildur waved a hand at the captain, "Make it so."  
"I will, O' Lord," the man said. He turned and walked from the turret, his vanguard about him. Isildur turned back to his brother, and started at the look of fear on his brother's whitening face.  
"What is it? What can you see?" he asked as he hurried over to the window where Anárion was standing.  
Anárion pointed out to the sole bridge over the abyss. Crossing it was a mass of black and silver, with black banners emblazoned with the white tree. At the front of the company was Ingold, the captain of Anárion's guard.  
"The fools!" snarled Anárion, "They'll all be killed," he turned and sprinted to the stairwell, "To the bridge! Quickly!"  
Isildur raced out of the tower after his brother.  
  
Ingold drew his sword as he stepped from the bridge onto the solid rock of the Barad-dûr's innermost sanctum. Before him there was a few yards of beaten rock that stretched out for a few dozen yards on either side, that cut a wedge from the base of the tower, which covered the entire pinnacle of stone. Above him rose the black metal gates, forty feet high. And up beyond them was the tower itself, black and menacing.  
His company followed him nervously. Among them were only a few of Anárion's bodyguard; they were composed mostly of common foot-soldiers, and a fair number of swarthy men. Crowding together, they advanced on the great gates.  
Slowly, cautiously, Ingold reached out with his blade and rapped smartly on the gate. The sound echoed ominously throughout the fortress. He stepped back and waited as the echoes faded away.  
He became aware that someone was calling his name. He turned warily back to the far side of the abyss. There, running down from the walls, was Lord Anárion. He waved his sword above his head, and cried,  
"Rally to me, Blood of Nùmenor! Let us make our Lord and Master proud! Storm the gates!"  
There arose a great shout from the assembled soldiers, save only the swarthy men. They frowned and readied their stance.  
And thus Anárion's shouts of dire warning were not heeded, and the company, three hundred strong, surged towards the gates. He continued to run towards them, Isildur and several curious soldiers at his heels. More were amassed at the bridge head. Many of those in the second row were more swarthy men. Anárion found this odd for some reason; the swarthy men were men that sat at the back awaiting victory.  
He pushed forcefully through the assembled troops still shouting for Ingold to turn back. He watched, horrified, as the men on the far side of the abyss hammered without avail on the iron gate.  
Near him a voice called out, "Should we go as well?"  
"Nay!" called Anárion, "Send a man out to bring them back!"  
A gold-clad elf detached himself from the front rank and trotted out onto the bridge. Setting his spear beside him, he called out, "Turn back, o' men of Nùmenor-" His call was ended by a short whistle and a thok, and he fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest.  
And all was chaos.  
Orcs by the hundreds sprung from the edge of the abyss on either side, and the gates of the Barad-dûr were suddenly flung wide, and from them issued a multitude of dark and terrible creatures. Panels in the tower, identical to all the others, swung open and innumerable orcs poured forth.  
Ingold brandished his sword at a fearsome troll chieftain, and was snatched up in giant scaly hands and torn limb from limb. His blood rained upon the harried Nùmenorians, who were now beset by the swarthy men as well.  
Words meant nothing to the swarthy men, and they now broke their oaths and slew many of the tall men of Nùmenor. Things would have gone ill if not for Glorfindel and the elves. They had sprung into action almost before their comrade had hit the ground. They easily out-matched the swarthy men in combat, and all that tried to slay them met their end on their leaf-shaped blades.  
Glorfindel himself stood over the edge of the chasm and cast down all orcs that tried to rise near him. Few were so blessed as he, and many an elf or man near the edge was slain by the rising orcs or cast over the edge of the pit.  
A dozen swarthy men rushed Anárion, recognizing him as their former lord. In a rage for the loss of his captain, Anárion slew four in a blur of motion, and the rest fled his wrath. He cut a swathe for himself through the confused mass of bodies and gradually his bodyguard gathered around him. They closed into a spinning circle of deadly swords and heavy shields, and all that attacked them fell.  
The Noldor had the same fortune. Well trained in the art of warfare, they formed deadly serried ranks of swordsmen and spearmen. Orcs threw themselves upon their blades, and the ground was soaked with their blood, but still they came.  
The lightly-armored Sindar suffered heavy losses initially. They were armed primarily with bows, and the swarthy men took great delight in slaying them, and they mocked their efforts at defense. But Thranduil rallied them, and they retreated to the wall-top, and with their slim shafts slew the swarthy men in their hundreds.  
Anárion reached the bridge to the Barad-dûr, and was met by still more orcs. Beyond the bridge, the last remnants of Ingold's company were slain by the trolls, who then turned on the swarthy men. Thus Sauron rewarded the treachery of the swarthy men with treachery of his own.  
Their enemies defeated, the foul creatures turned their attention to Anárion and his guard. Livid with rage, Anárion screamed wordlessly and surged forward. His bodyguard followed, crying 'Anárion! Anárion!' Orcs and trolls and Uruks alike fell before the sword of Anárion, and it seemed as though none could touch him. He fought his way across the bridge, and stood on the other side. For a brief moment, he was alone, the orcs before him cowering in fear of this bright-eyed warrior, and those behind him slain or being slain.  
Then the great Troll-chieftain that had slain Ingold stepped forward, brandishing a club that ended in a ball with covered with short sharp spikes of metal. Anárion brandished his sword at the beast and bellowed. It took a step back, then shook its small head and advanced on Anárion, its club raised on high.  
  
As it reached Anárion, it swung the club downward. He leapt aside and lashed out at the troll. It made a small gash on its arm, and it bellowed at the creature that tormented it so. It swung its club around in an arc, and Anárion leapt forward so that he fell between the troll's legs.  
Seizing his chance, Anárion stabbed upward into the troll's soft belly. It roared, but it was weaker now. He danced away as the troll swung its club at him once again. He leapt to the left to avoid being crushed by another blow and almost fell into the abyss. Orcs, standing in a wide circle around the two combatants, jeered at him.  
Anárion darted forward, dodged another swing from the club, and, gripping his sword in both hands, he ran it across the troll's chest, which was as high as he could reach. It bellowed again, but it was a mere whisper compared to the others. It all happened in less than a minute.  
Now Anárion's bodyguards caught up with him, and those that were armed with spears stabbed at the troll chieftain. The others re-formed the protective ring around their lord. Orcs, momentarily stunned by the loss of their greatest warrior, lowered their weapons and charged at the Nùmenorians.  
The men of Anárion's bodyguard wreaked a terrible slaughter upon their attackers, but they were nevertheless driven back, step by step. Many fell, and their blood pooled on the stone.  
Then, a group of Uruks broke through the defensive line and charged Anárion. He ran the fore-runner through, but was then overwhelmed. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and collapsed, his lacerated calf bleeding profusely. An Uruk stood above him, shouting its triumph to the world.  
Suddenly, its head vanished in a spray of blood. And there was Isildur, eyes aglow and sword flashing. Behind him came a great press of men and elves, shouting various war cries.  
For a moment, Isildur stood unopposed; the foul creature of Sauron cowed by his mighty presence. Then there arose a horrendous screech from the tower, and men threw themselves upon the ground and the elves cried aloud in dread. Than forth from the gates rode four horsemen, all in black. They were the Nazgûl, and men fled before them.  
The foremost pointed his sword at Isildur, and the mighty man fell to his knees, unable to breathe. Never had things looked more grim. Anárion dragged himself as close to his brother as he could before he too was entrapped by the enchantment of terror.  
Then from out of the seething mass of troops stepped Círdan, Elrond, and Galadriel accompanied by her husband Lord Celeborn. All three raised their hands, and they tapped the power of the rings. A great white light issued from them, and the Nazgûl fled in terror before it, as did the orcs.  
Lord Celeborn stepped forward and helped Anárion to his feet, "How do you fare, my friend?" he asked, full of concern.  
"I have been better," grunted Anárion, as he gingerly put weight on his injured leg, "How goes the battle on the other side?"  
"Glorfindel and his company have held the orcs at the edge. We have suffered much loss, Lord Anárion. It is clear to me that we will not take this tower on this day. Shall we fall back and lose fewer?"  
"We should seek counsel with my brother first, but I am in agreement with you Lord Celeborn," said Anárion grimly, "Why should we waste lives?"  
Isildur was led over to the pair, surrounded by his bodyguards. He nodded curtly to Celeborn, then glanced down at Anárion's blood-stained leg, "You are wounded?" he asked.  
"Not badly," lied Anárion quickly, "We must pull back."  
"No! When will we have another chance like this?"  
"Tomorrow?" suggested Celeborn, "Or the day after? They will not be able to repair that wall quickly, Lord Isildur."  
"I suppose that you are right," conceded Isildur, "Then let us move, I do not wish to stay in this place."  
They crossed the bridge, surrounded by troops. Isildur sighed once they were on the other side. Many warriors had already left the fortress and were amassing on the fields beyond the walls.  
"Victory was within reach," said Isildur gloomily, "And it was snatched away from us."  
"But we have retained our lives," replied Anárion, "Surely that must be worth something."  
"This battle is not over," said Elrond, appearing at their side, "We are merely carrying it outside of these walls." He glanced at the brother's bewildered expressions, "Do you seriously think Sauron will allow us to simply escape?"  
Isildur considered this for a moment, "No, that is not his way. He will crush us now, or be crushed himself."  
And as Isildur spoke, orcs came racing around both sides of the tower, having amassed after climbing from the abyss. More had come along the walls, and were engaged in fierce hand-to-hand fighting with the Sindar. They were nearly surrounded.  
"Through the gates! Quickly!" shouted Isildur, and men rushed to follow him. Anárion quickly fell behind, due to his leg. He snatched a shield from a fallen elf, and stood in the gate-way, as troops ran around him. He knew that this was the day he would die.  
  
Isildur noticed his brother's absence and turned. He shouted as he saw his brother standing at the rear. He tried to wade through the oncoming tide of soldiers, but found he could not. Then his ears pricked at the sound of a horn.  
It was a sinister horn, not bold, like the Nùmenorian-horns, or beautiful, as the elves. As it blew again, the long column of Easterlings that Anárion had seen before marched around the tower. Isildur tore his gaze from his brother and focused on the approaching enemy.  
He approached the machine operators at a run, shouting, "Load the machines with arrows, bundles of arrows! And aim them at the Easterlings! Quickly!"  
Hurriedly the machine-operators did as they were told. Isildur ran out in front of the machines and called,  
"Elves and men! Rally to me! To me!"  
And when they came he ordered them into ranks, and they crouched down below the line of fire of the machines. Isildur spared one last look back at his brother.  
  
Anárion gutted another orc, danced awkwardly around a spear thrust, and impaled the would-be killer on his sword. He fell back. He was tired, and he was losing a great deal of blood from his calf and from three new wounds he had recently received. Four more orcs rushed him, backed up by a small troll.  
He parried one, two, three blows from swords, beheaded an orc, ran another through, jumped forward and dragged his blade across the troll's neck. It fell onto his injured leg, and he collapsed, screaming in pain.  
Another orc attempted to stab him, but fell to Anárion's sword with a gurgle. Two more rushed up and Anárion was still unable to move. He braced himself for the end...  
And it didn't come.  
He opened his eyes to find both orcs, and several more behind them, fallen with arrows through their throats and heads. A company of elven archers ran past, led by Thranduil. The elf grabbed Anárion by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Supported between two elves, Anárion was dragged back towards Alliance lines and safety.  
  
The Easterlings were already approaching fast, then they broke into a trot, and their line widened, but did not seem to grow any thinner. Isildur stood behind the line of soldiers, and grimaced. Many of his men had fled to the barricades of the camp, and he was left with less than six thousands to face a far greater force.  
But he had the machines, and he intended to use them. The Easterlings were within range.  
"Fire!" he shouted.  
"Fire!" the order was echoed.  
And the three great war engines let loose their payloads of over five- hundred arrows each. They instantly burst into flame, and then into smaller fragments, and then vast swathes of the Easterling horde were swept clear by the flame.  
But it did not slow them.  
They crashed into the Alliance lines like a tidal wave, and there was great slaughter on both sides. The ash turned wet with blood of man and elf alike. For a moment the battle swayed as the machine-operators struggled to withdraw and reload at the same time. Then two trebuchets on the Barad-dûr let loose their stones.  
They landed amongst the battling armies, crushing both Nùmenorian and Noldor and Easterling alike. The Alliance soldiers swayed, and the Easterling's pressed the advantage. It looked as though the Alliance would lose the day when there arose a great shout from behind the tower.  
And out from their hiding place charged Gil-galad and Elendil's armies. They swept up the Easterlings in a tide of wrath and they slew nearly all of Sauron's servants. There were shouts of victory all around.  
Then, from the main gate came a vast horde of orcs, and they smashed into the unprotected flank of the Alliance.  
  
Anárion stood unsteadily in the hastily assembled shield wall facing the Barad-dûr. Orcs charged him, and he killed them. It became a steady rhythm; rush, parry, stab, slash. Rush, parry, stab, slash.  
He had very little blood left, he knew. His hands were pale, and he felt far weaker than he should have. He fell backwards slightly before he caught himself, and he stood up in time to meet a spear. It slid between his ribs and he fell to his knees. He feebly stabbed the orc, who nevertheless died.  
It was over, he knew. He just wished it would end, so he wouldn't have to feel so much pain. Pain from his wounds, yes, but pain also from the time he had spent in this wretched place. Wounds on his heart that would never heal. Wounds that Sauron's will had opened and he could not close. He wished it would end.  
The trebuchets on the tower fired again, and one rolled through the lines and straight onto one of the machines, crushing it. It meant more difficulty for the Alliance.  
But for Anárion, the stone had an entirely different meaning. It meant the end of the battle. It meant the end of life for Lord Anárion of Gondor, son of Elendil the Tall.  
The stone crushed his body, and his soul departed for the far green country to which men's souls go. He was free. 


	5. Epilogue

Isildur stood over the bonfire, and stared at the corpse of his brother. It burned, like the anger in his heart. They had won, but it had been a bitter and difficult victory.  
The dwarves, overlooked in the general fray, had rallied under Nalí Bloodtooth. They drove back the orcs, giving the Alliance time to regroup. They had been reinforced by ten thousand soldiers who had been overwhelmed by shame. Then, they had joined the dwarves in pushing the enemy back into the Barad-dûr. Nalí Bloodtooth's pyre was burning brightly in the middle distance. He had fallen beneath the gates to Uruks.  
Those that were still unhurt had stood guard while others gathered the corpses. That was where Isildur discovered Anárion's broken body. He had wept, and wept, and when Elendil arrived, there had been more weeping. The surviving men of Anárion's bodyguard had borne his body back to the camp, and it was cleaned as well as possible, and clothed.  
And now they were burning it. Isildur glanced at his father standing beside him, glassy-eyed. Isildur had not seen him this distraught since Amandil had parted ways with them.  
He turned back to the pyre and grimaced. So many had died today. Gwathôl, the King of Greenwood the Great had fallen in battle with the Easterlings. Thranduil had been distraught, and none could console him.  
Isildur noticed that Galadriel had chosen to stand with him and his father at Anárion's funeral pyre, rather than at Gwathôl's, a fellow elf and friend. She noticed his gaze and smiled enigmatically at him. He looked away.  
They stood in silence for hours as the fire slowly died, and Galadriel and Celeborn left to mourn others who had died, and Elendil retired to his tent. Only Isildur remained at the final resting place of his brother.  
He clenched his fists and whispered under his breath, "I swear by Ulmo and by Manwë that I will avenge you brother. I will make your sacrifice worthwhile."  
With that, Isildur turned on his heel and walked away, and came to that spot never again, except in dreams. And the wind blew, and the ashes of Anárion mingled with the ash of the land he hated.  
Eventually, the Plains of Gorgoroth claimed all who passed through them.  
  
The End  
  
I'd like to give a big thank you to all of my reviewers. This is the first multi-chapter story I have completed. All feedback is appreciated. 


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